What Dreams May Come
by T'Pring
Summary: After John Sheppard stumbles through the gate, battered and exhausted, holding a cure that will save his team from a deadly plague, Elizabeth is left at his bedside to wonder what he must have gone through during the 3 days he'd been missing.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I started this story just for some lighthearted John-whumping fun, but the silly thing yanked the keyboard away from me, started writing itself, and came out rather bitter-sweet and sad. Not in a morbid or depressing way, but a surprise none-the-less and I actually really like it. Oh, and the whump is still very much intact. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated._

_Atlantis, 3:00 p.m._

"Dr. Weir!" The shout from the control room jerked Elizabeth from her pensive daydreaming and she was walking briskly through her office door even before she quite realized she'd gotten to her feet. The sounds of the Stargate below preparing to receive a connection made the technician's next words unnecessary, "Incoming wormhole!" She was already moving to the communications station, her heart racing with anticipation even as she tried to force down the hope that she feared would yet again be unfulfilled. Tapping her fingers nervously against her crossed arms she watched blankly as the Stargate's protective shield hummed into life, cutting off the usually spectacular flush of the wormhole's initializing wave.

Long moments passed in silence with only the quiet gurgling of the active 'gate to fill the large, beautiful space. Elizabeth closed her eyes. For three days every incoming connection had pulled her to the control room only to suffer keen disappointment. Routine check-ins and contact from their friends and allies in Pegasus had become almost painful. For three days she'd been sitting in her office, pretending to work, yet thinking of nothing other than three people she cared about growing sicker and sicker in the quarantine units of the infirmary -- and one person she cared about who was still missing.

"Receiving IDC!" Elizabeth jerked her eyes open in surprise and turned towards the voice just as the technician continued, "It's Colonel Sheppard!"

Muted cheers and a noisy babble of hopeful conversation broke out, but Elizabeth was already racing towards the steps, too consumed by her own hope that had at last escaped its constraints and was pounding in her ears. She should have given the command to lower the shield; she should have ordered a medical team to the gate room. Instead she just ran to the foot of the Stargate where she stood on bouncing toes for a first glimpse of John. Luckily, her crew was too qualified to let protocol get in the way of a triumphant, if belated, return: the shield was down even before she had reached the bottom step. She seemed to wait an unusually long time, watching the flickering light, squinting into its shimmer.

When the familiar _splut_ of sound that indicated something had finally materialized reached her ears, she frowned in confusion for a moment until she realized that the emerging figure was not striding purposefully through the center of the shimmering puddle. Instead, John Sheppard stood off to the side, barely a step inside the gate, looking like he'd been leaning against the ornate ring's edge and had let go just long enough to force himself through. Even as she began to move over to him, he wavered, and put a hand out to steady himself on this side. The other hand he held tightly clutched against his chest, wrapped around a small object.

The smile that had found its way to her face was fading and the hands she'd reached out to indulge herself in an embrace extended instead in preparation for a catch; John looked as if he would fall over at any second. "John?" Elizabeth voiced the worry that was beginning to send shivery chills down her back.

John raised his drooping head and seemed to finally notice her. "Hi," was all he said before he slowly held out the precious object in his hand, pressing it urgently into hers, taking special care not to release it completely until he was certain she had a firm grip on it. The Stargate shut down beside them and the room seemed strangely quiet.

"What is this?" She was confused and growing more worried by the second as she took in more of his haggard appearance, his flushed cheeks, and the tight lines of suppressed pain around his glazed eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead and plastered fine strands of hair against too-pale skin.

"Give it to Beckett," he whispered. He looked around the gateroom bemusedly for a moment longer, nodded wearily to himself…and dropped to his knees. Calling for help, she reached him as he gently toppled to the side. She managed to just catch his head before it struck the cold floor. Heat radiated from his body and her arm and hand felt damply hot where she touched his head and arm. Sudden activity around her drew her attention from John's limp form. The two SOs were hovering nearby and a medical technician was reaching for John's wrist, none-too subtly edging her out of the way.

She reluctantly backed off just as one of Sheppard's men shouted, "Dr! Look!" Elizabeth pushed closer again as the paramedic rolled John slightly to get a better look at the back of the shoulder the SO was pointing at. A large, ragged hole in the rough non-uniform fabric revealed blackened, charred skin oozing dark blood. The edges of the awful burn were still smoking slightly and Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth in horror.

The activity around the unconscious Colonel became frenzied as the technicians gave up triage and simply heaved the man onto a gurney and bolted for the infirmary, managing to do so and still protect the wound. Elizabeth watched them go, needing a moment to gather her composure. Suddenly remembering the object John had handed her, she held it up to look at for the first time.

It was a small glass vial, stoppered at one end with rough-hewn cork. Peering even more closely she held the clear tube up to the light and realized it was actually filled with a clear, viscous liquid. The glass was warm from John's hand clutching it so tightly. "Give it to Beckett…" she repeated to herself, then "Could it be?!" Suddenly she was running down the steps, into the hallway beyond and through the corridors that led to the infirmary, clutching the vial tightly in her own hand and holding it pressed against her chest.

* * *

_Atlantis 8:00 p.m._

It had been several hours before Beckett called her back into the infirmary with such a cheerful tone that Elizabeth had smiled just upon hearing his voice through the radio. She had happily looked in on Ronon, Teyla and Rodney as they slept, finally unencumbered by the trappings of quarantine barriers. Beckett assured her that each of them was responding well to the vaccine/antidote Sheppard had brought through, and that they would all fully recover after time and plenty of rest. Beckett was not a man who begrudged a cure just because he hadn't discovered it, and Elizabeth was just as relieved to see the Doctor's improved condition. Her worry for him as he battled the disease and poured every ounce of himself into researching treatments had been as acute as her worry for those who were sick.

The amazement, confusion, and wonder she'd been experiencing in rhythmic cycles drew Elizabeth to Sheppard's bedside at last. How had he made it home with the precious antidote his team needed so desperately? How had he known what to look for? What had happened in those missing 72 hours? The curiosity was driving her crazy and she patted John's hand idly as she studied his unconscious form, her relief at his safe return overcoming the professional distance she usually kept between them in their easy working relationship. Despite all his confidence in his own abilities and leadership, he was a man easily embarrassed by gestures of affection.

He didn't look all that good. He lay on one side in deference to the burned shoulder that was nearly mummified in gauze and tape. His upper body was otherwise bare and the heart monitor leads, oxygen tubes, and IV lines made him seem incredibly fragile. The lightweight blankets were pulled well over his hips and up his torso, but she tugged them up a bit further none-the-less, unacknowledged maternal instinct compelling the act. He's still too pale, she thought, and as her gaze lingered on his face, she felt he still looked stressed, as if he was fighting pain even in the deepest of sleep.

"What the hell happened out there, John?" She whispered at last, letting her exasperation get the better of her.

"That's the million dollar question, now, isn't it!" Beckett purred into her ear from just behind and Elizabeth jumped, jerking her hand away from John's in guilty reaction. But Beckett was too happy at having all his patients safely on the way to recovery to notice, or care about, her imagined impropriety. He bustled to the monitors and wrote notes on John's chart for a few minutes before Elizabeth, still studying the small shadows of expression playing across John's face, finally gained the courage to speak.

"Is he OK? I just mean, he looks so pale and…uncomfortable."

Carson sighed and moved next to her to look critically at his patient. "He's been through the wringer, alright. In addition to recovering from the same illness his team had, he's got that nasty burn from some sort of energy weapon, I'm guessing, and a couple real beauties on his back and lower abdomen. Someone with a size 10 shoe took exception to the Colonel's ribcage."

Elizabeth just shook her head, trying to resist the impulse to take John's hand again. "You said he's recovering from the illness. Did you give him the vaccine?"

"No, and that's another puzzle to add to your collection. From the traces of the vaccine's preservative in his blood samples, I'd say someone gave him the dose 24-36 hours ago." Carson's expression grew harder as he continued, "Which means he suffered the symptoms of the illness a full two days after he sent Teyla and the others home without the benefit of any medical intervention, or relief."

Elizabeth looked at Carson in wonder. When Teyla and Rodney and Ronon had stumbled through the gate without John three days and some odd hours ago, they had already been miserable. The disease or illness, or whatever it was, caused high fever and painful inflammation of joints making all movement excruciating. Late in the cycle, they had all developed respiratory problems that were nudging towards full-blown pneumonia. The thought of John enduring the pain and discomfort she had watched her people go through without any of Carson's pain-killers and bedside manner was almost too much to bear. She blinked back the emotion, deciding to hell with decorum, and slipped her hand into John's after all, squeezing fiercely as if she could transfer some of her strength and outrage into him.

Carson nodded, understanding her gesture and her fury completely. He sighed again, but his voice was encouraging as he said, "The Colonel is a strong lad, and aside from a pretty ugly scar on his shoulder, he'll be right as rain in no time. He's in no danger. Rest and time will cure all his ills." The doctor patted Elizabeth on her shoulder and walked off with a spring in his step.

Elizabeth lingered, finding that watching John eased her anxiety over what he had been through, where he had been. After a long while, she noticed that he seemed to be moving around a little, his head rolled on the pillow, his fingers twitched. But even as she was just having the thought that he might be waking, his face contorted in an expression of agony and he thrashed his head before throwing it back with an excruciating grimace, all the more terrifying because no sound slipped out of his tightly clenched jaw.

"CARSON!" Elizabeth yelled because she didn't know what else to do but hang on to his hand and hope Beckett could help. But even as the noise of several pairs of feet came running up, John relaxed again to curl up, panting and mumbling, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Carson quickly checked the monitors again and then leaned over to pry John's eyelids open.

"We saw his heart rate spike on the monitors," Carson told Elizabeth. "But I really think he's just dreaming and restless from the combination of his injuries and the aftereffects of the illness. The others are also experiencing periods of agitation."

"Carson, that wasn't agitation! That was pure terror and terrible pain. The look on his face…" she trailed off as the memory choked her.

"I said he'd been through the wringer. But I'll add a painkiller to his meds in case he's being disturbed unconsciously." Carson left and Elizabeth blew out a breath of anxiety, resting her hands on the edge of the bed and leaning over John. He was still tensely curled into himself and she began to realize that his breathy mumbles were actual words. Looking around nervously, afraid someone might misinterpret her motion, she leaned even closer to his flushed face to listen.

He seemed to be repeating the same few phrases over and over, "Go, go, go! … Get help from Beckett… Nalia… Don't Nalia! … Don't come back, too dangerous… Nalia!" He shuddered slightly, then muttered on, "Go, go, go!" She smiled slightly and eased herself into a chair, dragging it closer so she might catch more of his words.

So. He'd ordered his team to go home to Beckett. That much tracked with what the others had said. He'd met someone named Nalia. The little bits of information were tantalizing, inflaming her curiosity even more. Beckett came and went and John relaxed a little, slipping into quieter sleep.

"What the hell happened out there, John?" Elizabeth repeated.


	2. Chapter 2

_G3C-187: Three days and some odd hours ago_

"Go, go, go!" John growled fiercely to Teyla, urging her to follow his command, and growing angry because she seemed to be digging in her heels to refuse.

"We should ALL go, John. You are sick too, and there is no guarantee these people will help even if they are able." The Stargate kawooshed and drew John's gaze to McKay who stood leaning heavily against the DHD. Ronon was swaying over the two unconscious native guards, trying, but failing, to appear alert.

"I have to try, Teyla. That girl, Nalia: she knows something. Maybe something that can help us. If you're feeling half as crappy as I am, then you need to go to Beckett, now. But I have to talk to Nalia again, just in case Beckett can't figure it out in time."

Teyla studied him for a long moment and he poured as much confidence and persuasion as he could into his expression; it was really hard to do while sweating and shivering and hunched over with the pain they were all experiencing. Finally she just nodded and he stifled a sigh of relief. He needed his people to be safe at home. And he needed to get Beckett started on a cure ASAP because everything they'd heard so far about the disease, it's symptoms and rapid morbidity, sounded too terrible to be mere folklore.

"Good," he went on. "Get to the Alpha site, it's unpopulated at the moment, then dial Atlantis. Let Beckett figure out the quarantine procedure."

"I know, John. We'll be fine. It is you who will be in great danger."

"Yeah, well, I'm sort of getting used to that."

Teyla held his eyes for a couple of heartbeats, touched his arm briefly, then turned away to prod McKay and Ronon through the gate. Ronon's usually easy stride was stiff and forced, McKay had passed beyond even constant complaints and moved in a hunched shuffle. Teyla alone still walked with something close to her natural grace, and John was certain it was sheer force of will only; she was as sick as the rest of them. As she turned for one last look at him, he called out firmly, "Don't send anyone back. It's too dangerous."

John waited until he was certain they had all passed safely through the event horizon before acknowledging his own misery. He tried to turn away immediately to walk back to town and look for Nalia's house again, but he swayed dangerously after only a step, grabbing at a nearby tree trunk to steady himself. He knew it was the fever that was making him lightheaded, and he wished his body could decide if it was hot or cold; he would feel like he was baking in an oven one moment, then the next he would be shivering like he'd been skinny dipping in the Antarctic…again.

"Come on, John!" he chastised himself, "It's just the flu; you can do this." Gritting his teeth against the pain of movement, he pushed away from the tree and set a decent pace down the path towards town. "Just the 'incurable, make you feel like you were already dead before it kills you in 72 hours' flu…that's all. No problem," he muttered as he forced himself along. "…maybe I can find some damn chicken soup."

A crowd of villagers pounded down the path shortly after he left the Stargate. He waited in a tangle of brush as they passed by, then, knowing they would be back, he stayed put for another 5 minutes. As expected, the group returned as they headed back to town, walking more slowly and muttering something about, "They'll get what they deserved." As if he was stupid enough to send his people home without requesting quarantine procedures.

Some twenty minutes later, well behind the posse who now thought they'd all left, he stumbled on the uneven path and landed on his hands and knees. Deciding that a break was in order, he shifted to sit against a nearby stone boulder and drew his knees up tight against his chest. Two miles had never felt so far. At a run, he could have covered the distance in 15 minutes; on a good hiking day, two miles was a comfortable half hour, if that. Looking briefly around him before dropping his head wearily on his knees, he guessed that at the moment he'd made it about half way; another mile to go.

John let his mind wander for a few minutes. Going back to town was beginning to seem like a really bad idea after all. When he and his team had arrived on the planet they called G3C-187 just yesterday afternoon, local time, they had been greeted by the villagers who seemed friendly enough, if a bit reserved. They had spent the night in the home of the town Doctor, Naden, and his daughter Nalia. Naden was very interested in Sheppard's people, and asked many questions that Sheppard couldn't answer directly, owing to the fact that as far as most of the galaxy was concerned, Atlantis had been destroyed more than a year ago. For his part, Naden seemed equally evasive, saying only that the town was a lumber outpost from a planet that had been culled and destroyed by the Wraith. He and his daughter had only come here in the last year and were some of the last of their home world.

John had retired for the night feeling unsettled and eager to leave the secretive and somber people they were among. He awoke at dawn the next day feeling like hell. And it had only gotten worse over the next few hours.

John groaned and tried to think of anything but the fire in every joint and muscle that was tempting him to curl up and die. The scary part was: if he stopped for very long, he could end up doing just that. A momentary surge of fear, and a deep reserve of self-preservation jolted him out of daydreaming, and propelled him to his feet. An anguished cry escaped his throat as the hasty movement shot spikes of agony up and down his shaking body. He was in a shivering phase just then, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a vain effort to warm enough to stop his teeth from chattering.

The image of Teyla walking stiffly, yet proudly, through the gate floated before him and he forced himself to take one step, then another, then another until the motion itself loosened the painful joints and warmed him from within. He had to make it, not only for himself, but also for Teyla and Rodney and Ronon. It wasn't that he didn't trust Beckett, or the man's abilities to eventually find a cure; John just preferred to help the situation along in case Beckett couldn't. It was a paradoxical philosophy to be sure, but it worked for John.

One more mile: Step by agonizing step, John pushed on towards the town. If he had stopped to think about it, he would have admitted even to himself that he had no damn idea what he was going to do when he got there.

* * *

_Atlantis, 3:30 a.m. _

Elizabeth startled and jerked awake, looking around wildly for a moment before her gaze rested on the sleeping form in front of her. John still slept, but was becoming restless again, his hands clenching and unclenching, his legs rustling under the blankets. Groggily, Elizabeth checked her watch; she'd been dozing for nearly an hour and considered returning to her own quarters for what remained of the night. But she'd already tried that; urged by Beckett around midnight to get some rest, she'd laid down for maybe two hours before her own restless curiosity and worry pulled her back to the infirmary.

A soft moan brought her alert as sure as any shout, and she was quickly standing beside John and squeezing his hand again. She watched him thrash weakly as he muttered, "Let me go, let me talk to Nalia, let me go." Despite Carson's repeated reassurances that the agitated episodes were only dreaming, she still looked around for a nurse or Doctor in case he needed more help than a warm hand and a comforting word. Beckett was finally resting himself, after days of caring for the others, but a night nurse was sitting at the desk nearby, occasionally glancing at the monitors.

"You people are fucking insane!" The almost-shout from the sleeping man was unexpected and Elizabeth jumped, even as John curled himself into a tight ball and began to shiver. Hastily dashing over to the blanket warmer, she was met by the nurse who was already pulling one out. Smiling at Elizabeth's urgency, the nurse handed over the blanket and allowed Elizabeth to take it back to lie over John's shoulders, covering the wires and bandages gently.

With that done, Elizabeth hovered for a moment, not quite ready to return to her chair. She rarely heard John swear like he just had in his fevered dream. His casual, playful personality was usually slow to reach the point of desperate anger she'd heard behind the words. Someone had held him, or delayed him and he'd become frustrated to the point of fury…if she was interpreting his random mutterings correctly.

With a sigh, she realized that she may never know _exactly_ what happened. Oh, he'd debrief with her and write his report…but he wouldn't describe his fear or frustrations, or tell her if he'd lost hope. Someday she hoped he could trust enough to share those things too, but for the time being, his dreaming mumbles were probably the only way she would learn more about the missing time than "I went here, then there, blah blah blah." For just a moment she felt guilty for listening in, as if she were invading his privacy. But the feeling only lasted a moment as she thought again about how much she cared for him: as a colleague, a friend, even as a brother figure when she needed someone to lean on every now and then. She could never hurt him.

The warmth of the blanket seemed to melt John's taut huddle, and he relaxed into quiet again. Finally, feeling like her own limbs and eyelids were melting into puddles of liquid lead, Elizabeth tweaked John's blanket ever so slightly, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, and turned towards her own bed.

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 1_

John reached the edges of the settlement where they had spent the night and paused before stepping onto the main road proper. It had taken him another 30 minutes to walk this far, and the town sprawled over at least a square mile of cleared mud between forested borders. Gasping from the effort it took to move, and still dizzy with fever, he found some comfort in the thought that at least his team should have made it back to Atlantis by now. Beckett would have figured out the quarantine and his people would be safe and cared for. John even allowed himself a moment of jealousy at the thought of the nice handfuls of Tylenol they could even now be choking down.

"Why'd they build their stupid town so far from the gate?" he muttered to himself, finding it odd that he seemed to have developed the habit of doing this out loud. Must be the fever.

As he looked warily down the neat row of wooden shops and houses towards the large and beautiful mill with its whirling waterwheel, paddling up foam in the swift forest river, he answered his own question: they'd built near the river for water and water power. Shaking his head, and regretting the motion instantly, he mused yet again that so much of the Pegasus galaxy looked like something out of old westerns: Simple wood dwellings, pre-industrial cultures for the most part, and people beaten down by the "bad guys" who followed no law but their own. In Pegasus' case, the "bad guys" also had spaceships and literally ate you for breakfast.

A few villagers were on the street, moving among the shops and the mill and John pressed himself into the shadows at the forest borders. This morning, when he and the others had admitted to Naden that they felt ill and were going to return to their own home, he had changed from cool hospitality to open hostility in an instant. John shuddered at the remembered look of disgust and superiority on Naden's face as he berated them for intruding upon the town's privacy and for their weakness in falling ill.

John had gotten a bit testy at being called a coward for simply catching the flu and had moved to simply leave when Naden had stopped him. "You don't understand," Naden had said. "No one who comes here can leave again, especially if they carry the plague. You will remain here while I gather the guards."

"What do you mean by plague? Do we have something you've seen before?" Despite his growing anger, Sheppard had felt the first tendrils of fear at Naden's blunt remark.

Naden's smirk was shadowed and frightening, "You suffer from a plague, a disease that struck down half of our population and that of several other worlds we unwittingly carried it to. It is lethal in 72 hours. Fever is followed by agonizing joint and muscle pain. Pneumonia develops after 48 hours, leading to respiratory distress and death. I expected this. There are already guards at the Stargate and on alert throughout the town. You will not be allowed to leave. You are a danger to any you contact beyond this world, and you are as good as dead here or anywhere you go."

What followed was something of a blur: Ronon had picked up Naden and tossed him aside like a bag of sugar, they had muscled through the door and endured the shocked, hostile glares from the villagers who caught sight of them stumbling and shaking their way to the path out of town. And Nalia, Naden's daughter of 17 or 18 had followed them for blocks, begging them to stay. As Naden had promised, guards appeared as they neared the borders of town, but the unskilled natives and primitive weapons were no match for a well armed and thoroughly pissed off Ronon.

Sheppard thought through those few hours ago…Nalia. Something she had said as she followed and pleaded with them to stay had caught John's attention. Something about, "I can speak to my father," and "There could be another way…" Nalia knew something her father wasn't telling, and John intended to figure out what that was.

Getting his bearings, John slipped around behind the shops and homes, following instead the imprecise edge of town as it cut into the surrounding forest. Nalia's home was on the far side of town, just beyond the mill, across a bridge over the river. In fact, the home was somewhat secluded and he appreciated the tactical advantage that would offer once he got there. IF he got there. Most of the buildings he was skulking behind were blank, the windows, instead, all facing into town; but they were widely spaced, and John could see people on the main street as he crept past the gaps.

Adrenaline and concentration had pushed the pain from his mind at first, but he felt it catching up with him. He was starting to stumble and shudder again when all his luck ran out at once. He was pausing to catch his breath when a man strolled lazily between two shop buildings with a load of what was probably trash. John froze and the man just almost walked past to dump his load into the tangled forest. Instead, with a startled jerk, the villager spotted Sheppard, dropped his basket where he stood and with a triumphant glare dashed back towards the main street yelling "Plaguer! Plaguer! He's back here!"

John bolted towards the river, a half-formed thought of following it deeper into the forest fighting for space with the raging agony his body was screaming into his mind. He struggled at speed for perhaps a minute or two, then stumbled, far short of his goal. He staggered to his feet again, pushing on, when a group of men, armed with sticks and rocks and a few projectile hand weapons, rushed across his path ahead of him. A handful of men behind him caught up, surrounding him.

With resignation, John tried plan B. "Hey, fellas. I was just looking for, um, you. I need to talk to Naden. It's important, so just run along and tell him I'm dropping in." He wished his voice sounded more convincing than the panting breathy gasps allowed. He really didn't plan to start a firefight; not only would it be unsporting with his superior firepower, but he wanted to talk. Killing a dozen of the town men didn't seem like a good way to get them to listen.

The shopkeeper who had spotted him in the beginning, jerked his head at two of the men who stepped forward and John allowed them to grab his arms…after carefully removing his 9mil and P90 from their clip and holster, setting the safeties on, and handing them over himself. The others milled about and then began to disperse back to their shops.

John sagged a bit into the hands holding him and blinked up at the shopkeeper who seemed to be in charge. "Look, I'm sorry I came back to bother you people, but I just need to say a few words to Naden. You can take me to Nalia instead if you want. I just want to talk. Then I'll be on my way. You won't have to worry about me sneezing on you or anything after that."

The leader merely snorted with the same distain that Naden had shown and motioned for his men to follow him back onto the main road. A crowd had gathered on the street and soon swarmed around him and his escorts, every face twisted with smug loathing. Shouts of "Plaguer!" broke out and the crowd pressed in, shaking fists at John who was beyond confused at the display, and close to passing out from the pain of being dragged awkwardly and forced to walk at the quick pace. The short walk down the street was becoming more horrible than John could have imagined, made even more so by the fact that he had no idea where they were taking him, or why everyone seemed so angry.

When he stumbled severely enough to lose his footing, the guards let him fall to his knees and the crowd jeered. Fury overwhelmed John as the men roughly hauled him back to his feet, the emotion providing a momentary surge of strength for him to shrug off the hands holding him and shout, "What the hell is wrong with you people! Where I come from, we help each other when we're sick…" His indignant outrage was cut off by a granite fist in his gut, the force of the blow doubling him over and knocking the breath out of him.

The head guard shouldered his way through the crowd and with a curt word parted the villagers to allow his men to drag a semi-conscious Sheppard the last few steps into the Mill. Vaguely, John was aware of the sounds of their footsteps thudding on polished wooden floors and the rhythmic creaking of the water wheel's axle driving cogs of machinery in the workshops a level down. The building was large, though, and the sound faded as he was taken through a heavy door and into a room that was clearly a jail of some sort. If he wasn't simply fighting to stay conscious, John would have laughed at the almost stereotypical setup of the long room with 3 or 4 cages separated from each other by tall iron bars. For a moment he felt as if he'd fallen into a movie.

The shopkeeper pulled open a door into one of the cages and John was dragged through to be dropped onto the floor, despite the fact that a moldy cot was only a foot away against the wall. John pushed himself to shaking hands and knees only to be knocked over again as one of the men kicked him savagely in the side. Not to be outdone, his companion kicked out and struck John in the small of the back. John yelled and writhed weakly, trying to roll himself away from the assault into a defensible ball against the wall.

"Enough," growled the leader and they all stomped out muttering, "Plaguer", closing the cage with a click and slamming the heavy outer door behind them.

John remained curled on the ground. The cool polished wood surface felt good against his fevered forehead, but the rest of him ached and burned. He began to shiver again, his whole body trembling in waves that tormented firey joints. Blackness began to creep into his vision until finally, overwhelmed by pain and despair, John let it take him. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Atlantis, 12:30 p.m. _

Elizabeth checked in on her people at her lunch break the next day. Despite feeling tired and groggy all morning, she couldn't shake the feeling of relief and well-being. Carson had returned to duty late in the morning and reported that everyone was still improving. In fact, Teyla, Rodney, and Ronon were all awake and resting with trays of food and plenty of visitors to keep them company. John was still unconscious, but Beckett wasn't worried, yet, just cautiously optimistic.

Elizabeth smiled as she watched Rodney bully the nurses into bringing more food to his bed, even as he was frantically poking at a laptop and muttering about catching up on memos. Ronon looked supremely bored and simply glowered at his teammate's nearly subconscious whining, although he did sit at attention when Elizabeth stepped near to express her pleasure at his recovery. Ronon replied in typical fashion, but without the undercurrent of wariness he usually wore, and Elizabeth was pleased that the aloof warrior was warming to her.

"How is Sheppard?" Ronon blurted out the question just as she was turning away to look for Teyla. Elizabeth faced him to show him she was being fully honest when she replied.

"As far as I know, he is just fine; recovering as you are. Beckett says he just has more sleep to catch up on than you slug-a-beds." Her expression turned serious and she held Ronon's eyes. "I'm going to find out for myself, though, and I'll let you know if I hear or think otherwise." Ronon nodded gratefully, pleased that Elizabeth would keep him informed of the truth. Beckett was an honest man, but Ronon knew that he might withhold disturbing information out of concern for Ronon's own recovery.

Elizabeth smiled and after looking around for another moment, asked, "Where is Teyla?"

Ronon grinned a rare, reserved smile of mischief. "We sent her to check on Sheppard, too."

Elizabeth grinned back in understanding as she caught even Rodney's quick glance or two in her direction as he overheard their topic of conversation. Sheppard's teammates were intensely loyal and very close personally as well as working well together professionally. They would need to see for themselves that their friend was truly well and healing. Just as she needed to.

Her quick strides soon took her to a quieter corner of the infirmary where John slept, away from the bustle of visitors and daily routine. She stepped around the privacy curtains to find Teyla, dressed in hospital scrubs and a blanket around her shoulders, sitting perched on the edge of John's bed, her two hands clasped around the one that peeked out from under the blanket still draped across his shoulders.

Elizabeth scuffed her shoes a little to announce her presence and stepped close to lay an affectionate hand on Teyla's blanketed shoulder. Whispering so as not to waken John before he was ready, she said, "Teyla! I'm so glad to see you feeling better."

"Thank you, Dr. Weir!" Teyla's voice was also soft and her smile, while weary, was bright.

Elizabeth noticed that Teyla had quickly moved her hands at her approach and couldn't resist teasing the woman who was as close to John as Elizabeth herself, if not more so. "Don't worry, I won't tell him," she said grinning and nodding at John's hand. Teyla chuckled, patted it one more time then, still moving stiffly, left the bed to sit in the chair that remained nearby.

After pulling another chair next to Teyla's, the two women simply watched John sleep for a while in comfortable silence. Finally Teyla whispered, "I have a childish urge to shake him awake so I can thank him for the cure…and demand he tell me how he got it!"

"I know how you feel!" Elizabeth replied fervently. She was debating whether to bring up the topic of John's mutterings when John did it for her. Going suddenly from motionless sleep to frantic thrashing, he threw off the blanket over his shoulder into a tangle of fabric around his flailing arm. His head rolled on the pillows and, before she could stand up and even begin to try to calm him, he flopped onto his back. As his heavily bandaged shoulder pressed into the mattress, John arched his back in tense agony and a yell of surprised pain tore from his throat.

Teyla quickly tried to move him off the wound, but John fought her hold on his arms, his unseeing eyes open and full of defiant fear. "Let me go!" he growled at the visions in his dreams, then he began to plead with her, even as he fought, "Don't Nalia… Please Nalia…I'm sorry. You can help, Nalia…"

Elizabeth raced to get a Doctor or nurse, only to find them already hurrying her way. Beckett trotted up to John's bedside where Teyla was murmuring, "You're home, John. You are safe. You're on Atlantis. You're home," in soothing repetition.

Carson checked all the monitors and pulled a syringe out of his pocket to inject the contents into John's IV line. John stopped struggling instantly, although his face and brow remained contorted in an expression of anxiety or pain. As one, Teyla and Elizabeth turned to face Beckett with accusatory postures, demanding without saying a word to hear from the doctor what that was all about. They were taken aback when he laughed out loud and raised his hands as if to ward off an attack.

"Carson, it's not funny. Is something wrong with John?" Elizabeth voiced the question she thought was obvious from the situation.

"Well, you're right. It's not funny. But you two are." Carson chuckled a moment longer before taking Elizabeth's hand firmly. "The Colonel is as fine as can be expected. He still has a fairly high fever, which is why he's having periods of delirium with the episodes of dreaming. The rest all still have fairly high fevers, if we're going to get precise about it," and he gave Teyla a little glare at her disappearance from her own bed. "The disease took much more out of John because we weren't there to relieve the symptoms as it progressed. We're watching him closely, and I still have no reason to believe he's not just dreaming, resting and recovering. You people are going to wear yourselves out, though, if you keep fussing over every sound the poor man makes."

Elizabeth felt a twinge at the Doctor's jab. She was beginning to worry more about those plaintive mutterings than John's physical condition, but she still felt a little guilty listening in. Something had happened that was disturbing his dreams more than could be accounted for by fever and illness. She exchanged a quick glance with Teyla and realized that the young woman was thinking the same thing.

"I'll sit with him a while longer," Elizabeth announced firmly and planted herself in her chair. The gratitude on Teyla's face was worth any glare she received from Beckett. Beckett turned his glare instead on Teyla who was in truth beginning to look a little pale and shaky. She sighed and shuffled off to her own bed, shooting Elizabeth one last look that said all too clearly, "Let me know if anything happens…"

Elizabeth settled in and peered closely at John's face. He was calm and resting quietly on his side again, but she still thought his expression was pensive, even in sleep.

"Nalia…I'm so sorry…" he whispered, deeply immersed in dreams.

Yes, something had happened, she thought to herself.

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 1_

John woke on the cold hard floor and wished he hadn't. Then he chastised himself for the thought, knowing that, ultimately, feeling like a frozen popsicle in a prison on an alien planet was still better than being dead. At least so far. Wincing in anticipation of the pain, he finally pushed himself up to sit against the wall and tucked his knees into his chest, fighting off the dizziness the change in position exacerbated.

Looking around the room, he realized that someone had been there and left a bucket in the corner by the one wall of his cell that was paneled and a blanket on the cot. No food, no water. The fact that he had missed the visit terrified him: if he was going to talk his way out of this he needed to be conscious to do it. He hastily made note of the shadows filtering dimly through the dirty, paned and barred window above his head and resolved to stay awake until the next visitor.

For the moment he was too exhausted to consider a physical breakout, but he studied the room he was in carefully, should that become necessary. He'd been in cages before and held what was probably an inflated opinion of his ability to escape any prison. Usually, though, he wasn't 48 hours from death by respiratory distress as he was contemplating a jailbreak. He checked his watch nervously at the thought; they had arrived about this time of day yesterday. His first 24 hours were gone.

When the hard floor started to dig into his tailbone, he limped over to the cot and wrapped the holey wool blanket around his shoulders gratefully. But he returned to his spot on the floor and folded one edge under him as he sat. He was worried that the cot, as thin and threadbare as it was, would lull him into sleep again.

One hour merged into two, then doubled into four. The light outside was fading and there were no other lights in the darkening prison. He hadn't expected automatic flood lights to blaze on at dusk, but he rather thought someone might bring him a candle or a lantern like the ones Naden had used last night at dinner.

Six hours after waking up alone in the cell, John was fighting down sheer panic. He paced the length of the barred wall, despite the agony of each step. The room was pitch black with only the faintest hint of moonlight or starlight brightening the window into a slightly less dark patch against the otherwise inky walls. A thin strip of candlelight seeped under the heavy outer door, but as nightfall turned into mid-night, even it went out without even so much as a footstep reaching his ears.

That was when he began to yell, screaming for someone to hear him, to acknowledge he existed. Finally, trembling with fury and terror, he felt his way to the cot and sat on it against the wall, his knees drawn up again, the blanket still draped around his shoulders. They'd left him to die. There would be no visitors, no food or water that would only delay the inevitable. They'd suffered the plague before and apparently decided that those weak enough to succumb should be locked away. His head dropped onto his knees and he fell deep into thoughts as black as the room around him.

John was roused out of dreams of swimming through cold waters filled with stinging jelly fish and Wraith hands clutching at him. Thinking he'd felt a breeze against his face he tilted his head towards the sensation, realizing, as the deliberate motion pulled him further awake, that he'd slumped over and was laying on the cot…and that it was brighter in the room. Perhaps he should open his eyes, he thought stupidly, and did so.

It _was_ brighter. The tiny glow of a candle held by a small brass candlestick sat flickering on the floor near the door, but it was the shadow that was pulling hastily away from him that caught his attention. "Wait!" he gasped, cursing the sleep that was still fogging his reactions, and the fire in his joints that slowed him as he struggled to sit up. "Wait!" he pleaded as the shadow darted out of the cell, hastily shut the door and stooped to pick up the candle.

As the shadow bent into the glow of the tiny light, John recognized its face, "Nalia!" he called as he staggered to the bars. The girl froze and gave him a terrified glance, then slipped through the outer door and pulled it quickly shut, choking off the small light and plunging John back into utter darkness. For a while, John raged at the bars, calling Nalia's name, begging her to come back and berating himself for falling asleep and missing his chance to talk to the girl.

When the anger passed, he sank back onto the cot and buried his head in his hands, trying to think clearly, but only questions came to mind. Why had Nalia come? Why did she run when he woke? He closed his eyes and tried to picture the moment when he'd pried his eyes open; she had pulled away quickly, but he suddenly remembered the feeling of something brushing his cheek. Had she touched him while he was sleeping? Why?

A sudden, uncomfortable thought struck him and he hated the way his mind began to think of ways to take advantage of the situation. John was a man who'd been told he was handsome often enough that he supposed he believed some people could think so. He honestly didn't ever think about it himself. He'd used his flyboy-pilot routine on more than one occasion to get a date, but like all men the galaxies over, he had to work hard enough at wooing women that the idea of an alien teenager falling for him on sight seemed somewhat laughable, whatever McKay might assume.

However, if Nalia did have a crush on him… He groaned in frustration. Could he actually play on a young girl's innocent infatuation and use her to get him out? In those dark, desperate hours before dawn, he knew for a moment that he actually might try. And in all honesty, it would be difficult not to as she was the only person he knew who had even hinted at a cure or shown any sympathy at all. He had come back because of her in the first place.

The window grew brighter, finally casting enough light into the room that John could make out shapes, and see his own hands in front of him. He still sat on the edge of the cot, and rubbed his face tiredly in the cold light when his glance fell on the floor. Near the end of the cot sat a small cup and a simple pitcher of water. He knew that it hadn't been there the evening before, and he hadn't been able to see it in the dark until now. As he slid off the cot to pour and drink greedily, his heart fell a bit further.

He was sure that Nalia had brought him the water during her nighttime visit.

* * *

Nalia ran from the prison room door, clutching the candle tightly, her heart hammering in her chest from fear and…something else she'd never felt before. He had remembered her. He knew her name. She was giddy with delight at the simple fact that he recognized her, even as she was terrified that he might tell her father she'd been to see him,. 

Daydreaming as only a girl can, she skipped lightly out of the dark and empty building until she passed near the small grimy windows where the man's voice yelling and cursing and begging stopped her in her tracks. He was calling her name, over and over, every repetition burying a spike of guilt and longing and regret deeper and deeper into her already damaged heart. She stood frozen even after the shouts grew softly desperate, then stopped altogether.

Nalia had lost her mother and half her planet to the plague two years before. She had come of age in a time of terrible loss and uncertainty. Her father had taken her to another planet, hoping to flee the memories only to see their new home struck down, their new friends suffer from the illness they soon discovered Nalia and her father themselves had brought upon them. They'd been driven off that world and almost killed.

When they came here, Naden had been prepared. Even as the people welcomed them, Naden began to warn them of the plague that was striking planets. He called it a test of the Ancestors and that those who were strong enough to fight the illness would be free of the Wraith forever. He set himself up as town Doctor, and pretended to treat everyone, praising those that stayed well and scoffing at those who fell ill, convincing the town that in the divine test, those who were strong and faithful would be saved. In their desperation to find some meaning from their plight, the townspeople accepted Naden's interpretation, and shunned the sick.

And in the end, half the town had died, just like everywhere else. But they let Naden and Nalia stay, and even followed his council on other matters as well.

Nalia had seen too much death in her short life, lost too much with little comfort or regard for her pain.

And then, John Sheppard, Rodney McKay, Ronon Dex, and Teyla Emmagan stepped through the gate. And they were the most beautiful people Nalia had ever seen. And they were strong, and they were not afraid of her father. She had stared at each of them all evening long from the corner of the room in her house as they talked with Naden. She could tell that her father was growing angry with their guests; they simply wouldn't be intimidated and Naden had grown accustomed to being deferred to.

When Naden left for a moment to tend to their small flock of livestock before bed, the guests remained talking quietly around the table, and she could tell that they were friends. Nalia hadn't had friends since she was a young girl and no one her age here had…survived. She was beginning to feel something like hero-worship for these beautiful strangers and could have simply sat by the fire and watched them talk to each other for an eternity.

But it wasn't until the man who'd called himself Lt. Colonel John Sheppard had wandered over to the fire, stretching out limbs stiff from the long conversation that Nalia began to feel something entirely new. He took her breath away and she didn't understand why. He'd smiled at her absently and run his hand through his dark hair, then turned to receive a quick, one-armed, goodnight hug from the woman with the flowing cinnamon hair before they retired to the rooms Nalia had prepared for them.

For a long time she stood in the dark outside the prison window, remembering the feel of his hot skin on her fingertips as she'd touched his cheek; remembering him smiling at her and imagining herself giving him the good-night hug; wishing she was the woman who was his friend and travel companion.

He had remembered her name. And now he was going to die, desperate and alone, and calling her name. With a choked cry and hot tears rolling down her cheeks, she ran to her home and flung herself on her bed, grief for the man and everyone she had lost pouring out in great soul-wracking sobs.


	4. Chapter 4

_Atlantis, 4:00 p.m. _

Dr. Beckett completed his rounds, saving Sheppard for last. The doctor was still pleased with the Colonel's vitals, and even his temperature had dropped a degree or two…down to only "burning up" he mused. But aside from the charts and measurements of physical health, if he allowed himself to think about John as friend rather than patient, he was getting a wee bit worried about the man's refusal to wake up, even if only for a minute or two. He recited to himself all the excuses he'd been feeding Elizabeth and Teyla and John's teammates, but as he stood alone by his friend's bedside, he wasn't buying them any more than they were.

It was quiet in the late afternoon; his other charges were all napping and even Elizabeth had returned to her office to check messages and catch up on the day's reports. Feeling a bit silly, Carson pulled the chair over and sat down to watch stiffly over John as he slept. The doctor was known for his bedside manner when his patients were awake, but he'd never really found the need to sit with them when they were unconscious; he preferred to be up and actively working on their care. But as he continued to keep vigil, he began to understand.

Human beings, even those as stubbornly strong as Colonel John Sheppard, were fragile when they were asleep; vulnerable in a way that was perhaps even more disturbing when the person WAS as strong as John. And it was instinctive for humans, (well, most humans) to protect the vulnerable.

"You'll be just fine, lad." Carson allowed himself the privilege of encouraging the younger man out loud. "You rest as long as you need. We'll be here for you until you can take things over on your own."

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 2_

"Nalia?"

Her father's voice pulled the girl out of the restless sleep she had fallen into, still dressed in the clothes she had worn on her midnight visit.

"Silly girl! Get up, it's late and you have chores."

Nalia sat up and automatically called back, "Yes, father," before she was even fully awake; before the rush of memory assaulted her and she buried her face in her pillows, the tears threatening to flow again.

"Nalia!" Her father's voice was sharp and impatient. "I have to question the plaguer and I want you to be at your chores before I go."

As the statement sunk in, Nalia jumped out of her bed, hastily wiped her eyes and ran her fingers through her tangled shoulder-length hair. She flung open her door and fairly flew down the stairs to find her father shrugging into a worn jacket and preparing to leave the house.

"I want to go with you!" Nalia blurted out before thinking.

"Why?" Naden was taken aback by the request and the question was thick with suspicion.

"I…I…" Nalia had never before taken any interest in the stricken of the town, protecting herself in the only way she knew from the horrors of the plague. "I want to look on the face of the plaguer and see his weakness…so I may stay strong."

Naden's face flashed a look of surprise, then flickered understanding, settling finally on an expression of deep sadness. "Very well. Follow me, girl. But do not speak."

The shopkeeper who had captured Sheppard joined them at the main door to the Mill. With angry resolve, the two townsmen walked purposefully through the halls of the large building to the corner that housed the prison. The shopkeeper, whose name was Davka, flipped the simple latch on the outside of the heavy door and snatched at the key that hung on a hook near the frame. They had only to worry about plaguers leaving the cells, they never thought to worry about anyone wanting to get in.

Davka and Naden squared their shoulders and entered, Nalia quietly skulking behind her father, half wishing the man to see and recognize her again, half fearing what would happen if he did. She needn't have worried: Sheppard was quietly passed out on his cot, curled under the blanket and oblivious to their arrival.

"You! Plaguer!" Davka called brusquely. The form on the cot didn't move.

"Colonel, we must speak to you." Naden resorted to using at least part of the man's name, although he sounded as if the word had an unpleasant taste. Finally, in disgust, Davka unlocked the cell and, stepping inside, grabbed Sheppard's shoulders to shake him awake and slam his shoulders upright against the wall. Naden followed unhurriedly to stand over the slumped prisoner.

John sat blinking and gasping at the intrusion for a moment, then Nalia saw a look of steely resolve settle in the warm, light brown eyes as he saw the door open, the path to the hallway tantalizingly clear. "What do you want?" he asked, the fury at being left for dead bubbling beneath the surface of the calmly spoken words.

Naden replied, "It is our custom to ask those stricken their burial requests. Since you come from so far, we do not know your death customs and cannot promise to fulfill any but the most basic of ceremonies. Yet, we will do what we can. Cremation or burial in our town cemetery is most common. Which do you wish?"

"I do not wish to die at all." John spoke with matter of fact conviction. Nalia thought his voice sounded rather hoarse, and with a guilty conscience, remembered him yelling in the dark.

"That is not up to me."

"Isn't it?"

Naden flinched at the unswervingly steady gaze John fixed upon him, and a flicker of triumph flashed over the prisoner's face. "Of course not. You suffer the plague because your faith in the Ancestors is weak. You are weak," but Naden didn't sound as convincing as usual under the continued scrutiny.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Are you afraid I'll spread the plague among your people? Because I promise, I'll just leave. I'll just go home."

"No. Everyone who remains here is immune."

From his confused look, Nalia saw that John was surprised by Naden's statement. "Then why? Why hold me? Why do you care if I take the plague elsewhere?"

Naden was struggling for composure. His reasons were his own, and those of the circumstances he'd created when he came here. "The plague is a test of your faithfulness to the Ancestors." Naden's voice was breathless with fury and thinly-held control and he was painfully conscious of Davka's curious looks in his direction at the stranger's pointed questions, "It doesn't matter where you go, you will die for your faithlessness, and you will die here."

"You're wrong." John pushed himself off the cot to stand, his confident stance radiating righteous indignation causing Naden to take a single step backwards before he shored up his own resolve and lifted his chin in equal defiance. "You're wrong," John repeated. "I have no intention of dying here or anywhere else today. You're a pathetic little man who's hiding a cure from these people because it makes you feel self-important when the others die and you survive. There is no test, only your own cowardice…"

"Silence!" Naden was shaking with fury, clenching his fists and John didn't press. Nalia looked back and forth between the two men and backed away a bit from the bars. So much was going on beneath the words: John was studying Naden intently, watching every flicker of expression or change of posture. Naden was flushed and looked about to strike out.

At last, Naden relaxed, breaking the tension and merely sighed with a superior glance at Davka, "It's always sad when a plaguer won't accept their fate," he told John with what sounded like knowing regret. "Some are even saved by their faith, like Davka here. That is the only cure I can offer. And I withhold it from no one."

He took a step towards the cell door, preparing to leave. With a snarl of frustration, John leaped at the door himself, trying to get through first, shoving Naden aside as he lunged past. But the desperate prisoner made it only as far as the doorframe when Davka caught up and wrapped his arms around John's waist from behind, pulling them both down to their knees as John clung to the frame near the latch, so close to freedom and yet so far.

Davka held the struggling John long enough for Naden to scoot by, then with a ferocious yank, pulled John off the bars to slam him, shoulder first, into the floor. Standing quickly, Davka shoved John even further into the cage with his foot and quickly stepped out himself to swing the door closed. John rolled quickly up and launched himself at the bars, rattling the door and causing the two men to take a step back. "You people are fucking insane!" John shouted.

In response, Naden simply took two steps to the outer door, turned back to reply calmly, "You have not given your answer. We will be back later when you are closer to your death and feel like making your arrangements. Nalia, come now!"

Nalia stood petrified, staring at John who suddenly sagged against the bars as if he'd used up his last reserves to challenge Naden and make his one desperate attempt at escape, leaving him empty and hopeless. And yet, he returned Nalia's look for just a moment. John said nothing, but his eyes held hers and they were pleading, encouraging, and sympathetic all at the same time. Frustrated, her father walked over to grab her arm and physically pull her out of the room, and she felt John watching her until the door closed between them with a finality that Nalia could hardly bear.

John stayed there for a long time after Naden pulled Nalia away. He leaned his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes, forcing himself to go through the confrontation again, reviewing all he had heard and thought he had learned. He was certain Naden had a cure. He'd been casting in the dark by revealing to Naden what he guessed, but from the man's reaction, John was sure he'd hit the mark. He didn't know exactly what sick little game Naden was playing with these people, but Naden had a cure, and no one else knew. Perhaps not even the girl, although he thought she suspected.

At last, taking an expectant breath, he listened for a moment longer to be sure no one was approaching and pushed against the bars that formed the door into his cell.

With a rusty creak, it swung wide open.

* * *

_Atlantis, 7:00 p.m. _

That evening in the infirmary felt like a celebration. Elizabeth brought her dinner down to eat with Teyla, Rodney, and Ronon, and even Carson stopped working long enough to eat his sandwich sitting perched on the edge of Rodney's bed. They chatted with comfortable familiarity, but despite the joking and teasing, and even the more serious conversations about their illnesses and fears, there was a hushed quality about them, as if everyone were waiting for something.

Or someone. Elizabeth finally put her finger on the feeling: It was as if they were having a party where the guest of honor hadn't been invited; in this case he hadn't shown up yet. John Sheppard was still unconscious and even Carson was starting to look anxious. The feeling of waiting grew heavy, and the celebration broke up at last with nearly everyone taking a moment to check in on John before returning to his or her bed or work.

Elizabeth was the last to visit and, deciding that there was no point to trying to sleep at home, she pulled up her chair to sit close again. She saw Dr. Beckett bustling around in his office and knew that he wouldn't be leaving tonight either. She talked to John for a while, thinking maybe he needed to be disturbed, or perhaps he needed an anchor to find his way to consciousness. But he lay so quietly still, that eventually she even gave up holding his hand. He would find his way, she was sure. And she would be ready to help if he needed it.

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 2_

John paced in his cell, forcing himself to keep moving, to stay awake. He left the cell door open just to remind him of the hope he now held at escaping, but the small piece of 90 mph tape was still firmly stuck over the door's latch such that he could pull it closed quickly without the lock engaging. He had planted the tape as he wrestled with Davka, hoping his struggling would cover the act of positioning the small silver square concealed in the palm of his hand.

But the outer door was still locked; his luck wasn't that good today, so he paced. Naden said he would return, but the fear John wrestled down like a mad demon was that he would come too late; that John would be too far gone, too sick to do what he had to do.

Some small part of him took stock of his reserves and sent plaintive reminders to John's consciousness that his restlessly pacing body hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, that he'd had only a few small cups of water in that time, that he had a fever probably topping off at 105, and that he'd slept perhaps two or three hours in said 24 hours. The pain had been with him so long, he was almost numb with it even as the constant dizziness worried him. But he was afraid to sit down or rest because he had exactly one last chance to leave. If he failed, Naden would lock him back in the cell and no one would open the door again until long after he was dead.

The light shifted as time passed, and the shadows moved around the room. John had walked for so long, his shoulders and back and chest ached with exertion and fever, but he didn't yet realized that the tickle in his chest was more than just thirst and a dry throat. When afternoon began to melt into evening, he finally had to sit for a while, but he kept to the edge of the cot, allowing himself no comfort, only a chance to relax stiff muscles.

He cleared his throat again, and the tickle erupted into a full blown chest-wracking cough. Shaking from the toll the spasm took on his already weakened body, John began to recognize that the ache in his chest wasn't lessening as he rested. Over the next hour as he sat, it only grew worse, into a kind of suffocating pressure, as if someone were sitting on him and squeezing the breath out of him slowly, like a leaky balloon.

Gasping, he remembered Naden calmly stating that pneumonia developed in 48 hours, and two days ago, this time, he had stepped on this cursed planet looking for and extending friendship. A kind of panic overwhelmed him and he staggered out of the cell and pressed himself against the outer door, desperately listening for someone, anyone to come near.

When it seemed that he actually did hear footsteps approaching, he froze for just a second, trying to remember what he should do, resisting the urge to simply call out and rage against the door. Forcing control, he quickly pushed the empty cell's door closed, and pressed himself against the wall just behind the outer door. It opened inwards, and there was John's chance: it would hide him for the moment or two he needed to create an advantage of surprise.

The footsteps continued closer, paused, and he heard a scratching at the frame: someone was lifting the inner cell key off its hook. John heard a simple bolt being thrown, and, heart hammering in his chest, all pains and weakness melted away as adrenaline surged and he held his breath in utter concentration.

The door opened abruptly, shielding him from the sight of the man who stepped through. Davka froze as he took in the empty cell, one hand still on the handle of the doorknob John was just behind. With a savage thrust, John slammed the door into the stunned man, catching the side of his head with the edge of the polished wood door. Davka dropped, howling and clutching at his head and John knelt to throw a punishing fist into the man's jaw.

With furious vindication, John kicked and shoved the semi-conscious shopkeeper into the cell as he had been shoved, swiped the key, ripped off the tape and slammed the inner door shut. He approached the outer door more cautiously, worried that the noise might have attracted other curious onlookers, but the hallway directly beyond was empty and growing dim as the light outside also faded. A single window to his right looked out on the riverbank, and John decided that was as good a way as any to leave the building.

A quick shove and the window was open, a short drop and he was kneeling on cool damp earth with the cheerful noise of the river gurgling in front of him and the waterwheel creaking as it spun just around the jutting wall to his left. For a moment, he was so grateful to be outside, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool, humid evening air. The agonizing coughing fit that followed brought his frightening reality sharply to bear. He was still in deep, deep trouble.

Fighting for control over his shaking and weakened limbs, he stumbled along the edge of the river, behind the waterwheel to the opposite edge of the Mill, peeking out furtively to view the path and bridge that lead to Nalia's house. She was his only chance. He was nearly out of time, and only Naden's secret, unconfirmed, please-God-let-there-be-a cure could save him now.

There were a few townspeople on the main street and he waited until they had entered their homes or shops and the road was empty as far as he could see. Shaking from fear as much as fever, he dashed across the bridge and into the thicker foliage beyond, making his way the short distance further to the impressive two-story farm-style wooden house that sat against the deeper forest's borders.

He would have to get Nalia alone somehow; maybe he could wait for her in the lean-to and confront her when she came out to feed the animals. Or…

He dove behind a thick tree-trunk and threw himself on the ground as the door of the house flew open and bright lamplight flooded the yard and path for a second before the shadow of Naden, stepping out and pulling on a coat, blocked it off. John caught just a glimpse of Nalia standing in the door, pleading with her father who simply turned his back on her and stomped away. The girl watched after furiously for a short time, then slammed the door shut.

Or… he could wait until Naden left the house, thought John, grateful for any bit of luck. Naden walked past John's hiding spot with a distant, distracted expression as John fought to quell the cough that was tickling in his chest with agonizing insistence. Gulping and gasping he managed to stay quiet long enough for Naden to pass on, then giving in to the demands of his tortured lungs, he coughed until he lay in a limp heap on the damp earth.

Forcing himself, finally, to stand back up, John crept to the house and around to the back door where he hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Should he barge in and confront her aggressively? Or would it be better to go the polite "dying stranger on the doorstep" route? Another cough was tickling deep in his chest, and in the end, he just leaned against the door frame and knocked, pounded actually, trying to clear his throat and control the spasm long enough to talk to Nalia.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, the door opened tentatively and Nalia peeked around the edge to gasp at him, staring frozen with wide eyes. John was short on time, so he pushed his way in without an invitation and she scuttled back several steps to watch warily as he stepped in far enough to close the door behind him, only to turn and lean heavily against it.

"Nalia," he croaked, and was surprised at how raspy and faint his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Nalia, I need your help… I… Your father…" It was then, as the spasm he'd fought to suppress overwhelmed him and he slid down the door, coughing and gasping for breath, that he realized he'd miscalculated; he hadn't saved enough strength, or Naden had simply stalled long enough for the disease to do its work for him.

Spots danced before John; he felt like he couldn't breathe. He was vaguely aware of Nalia kneeling by him on the floor with a look of terror and sympathy. He'd run out of time before getting the chance to really talk to her. He'd failed. "I need your help," he whispered, then the spots merged into a single blackness and for a while he knew only tortured coughing and regret. 


	5. Chapter 5

He had come! He had come to her!

Nalia dashed into the kitchen to swipe up a starched white towel, and quickly pumped up cold water from the well to dampen it. Skidding back to the door where the man lay gasping and moaning, all-but-unconscious, she gently lay the cloth on his fevered forehead and awkwardly patted his shoulder until the cough calmed enough for him to rest.

He needed her. He needed help and he had come to her.

Just before John had pounded on the door, she had been arguing violently with her father, giving up all pretense and begging Naden to let her see the plaguer again. Naden, for his part, understood the girl's motives, but wrote off her desperate infatuation to silly adolescent puppy love. There were few handsome men in their town; life was hard and the plague had creased and saddened every face. He could understand his daughter's attraction to the dashing stranger, but it only fueled his hatred of the man who was beginning to represent everything that Naden wasn't: strong and proud and honorable. The man would turn even his daughter against him. Furious, Naden had stormed away from the house to drink in the town bar. At least he could have the pleasure of discussing the stranger's funeral with Davka when the shopkeeper returned from the final questioning…

Nalia had slammed the door after her father, wishing she were brave enough to sneak back to the prison that night and knowing she was not. But then, here he was instead; standing in her door and asking for her! As she quietly mopped his brow, having exchanged no words but his plea for help, the longing she'd suffered since the first smile he'd sent in her direction blossomed into a frightening kind of passion: She loved him. She was his. She would do anything for him.

And he was hers.

Her mind raced as she sat, and she soon had a plan. "I'll be back in just a second, then we'll find a place to go," she whispered lovingly to him and then darted through the house gathering up the things she thought she would need: her coat, a pile of blankets, a cup and a box of matches, a glowing lantern that she'd just filled with oil. She shoved everything but the lantern into the simple canvas bag that she used to bring home items from the market, slung it over her shoulder and then knelt again by the man's head.

"Colonel?" She tapped his face lightly even as she hesitated over his name; he had so many. Her father had called him Colonel since their introductions. His friends had referred to him most often as "Colonel" or "Sheppard," but the Cinnamon-haired woman had called him "John," and Nalia desperately wanted to use the name that had sounded so intimate when it followed a warm "good-night." But she didn't dare, not quite yet.

She tapped harder and he blinked at her with enough comprehension that she continued, "We need to leave here. I can take you somewhere safe, where Davka and my father won't find us. But you need to get up. Can you walk?" He struggled to understand, then nodded, pushing himself up into a crouch. She heaved on his arm to help him stand, wrapping her arm around his waist to support him, and looping the lantern over her other arm. Together they took faltering steps, out the door that she opened for him, and into the yard beyond the house.

She guided him to an overgrown path that led even deeper into the forest away from the mill, and even though she was panting from the exertion of bearing a good deal of his weight, she kept up a cheerful patter of whispered conversation. "The woodcutter's house is just down this path. He died in the plague. His house has been empty since, but I think they've left most of his things still there." She held the lantern high as they reached a fork and turned surely into the left one.

"There will be wood for a fire, and a bed you can rest on. I'll heat some water for tea, and hopefully I'll be able to bring back some food from my house before my father returns from town…"

For John, the journey in the dark, with nothing but pale lantern light bobbing along on Nalia's elbow, was a nightmare of pain and despair. The exertion forced air through his raw and battered lungs. Every step was agony. Every step was steeped in the fear that he'd failed his friends: he hadn't found a cure. He was already dead -- Already a ghost, walking in a dim circle of light with darkness all around that threatened to swallow him up forever.

But Nalia was as giddy as if she were celebrating her wedding night. When they at last reached the gloomy simple hut, she kicked the unlocked door open to drag John, coughing and gasping again, through the door and towards a large straw-mattress bed. Her lantern flooded the one-room dwelling with warm light. After easing him down carefully, he immediately curled up into an agonized ball and the wracking coughs finally drove him to blissful unconsciousness.

Nalia tenderly covered him with her blankets, started a cheery fire in the fireplace just at the foot of the bed and, rummaging in the kitchen, set an iron kettle of water over the fire to heat and a cup of cold water by the bed. Before leaving the now warm and glowing hideout, she sat on the edge of the bed and watched him for a long time. He was so beautiful, she thought, and she reached out to stroke his cheek as she had done in the prison cell last night. He neither awoke nor moved at the contact.

"I'll be back…John," she whispered to him with affectionate daring. "You need some food to gain your strength back. Then we can be together, forever."

Nalia smoothed down the unruly shock of hair that, had she known otherwise, stood up most of the time, bent to kiss him on the cheek, then threw her coat around her shoulders and shut the door behind her as she left into the night.

* * *

_Atlantis, 11:00 p.m. _

One hour passed in the quiet infirmary on Atlantis, then two. It wasn't late, but already tired from nearly no sleep the night before left Elizabeth dozing in the chair by 10:00. The nurses dimmed the lights, seeing that she was mostly asleep and performed their regular checkups on John as quietly as possible.

When Elizabeth roused from her fitful sleep, she realized she had company. Teyla had quietly pulled the second chair next to hers, and sat with her legs curled up against her chest, her chin resting on her knees. Elizabeth stretched and yawned, then rubbed her neck that was stiff from the awkward position she'd been resting in. She saw Teyla's eyes flick in her direction and Elizabeth threw her a questioning smile.

"I couldn't sleep," Teyla admitted sheepishly, then turned her gaze back on John. Elizabeth understood completely. The feeling of anticipation, of anxious waiting, seemed even thicker in the gloomy dimness. She left for a moment to raid Carson's pot of freshly brewed coffee, and wasn't surprised when the Doctor followed her back to the bedside with a cup in his own hand. She was surprised when he found another chair and dragged it over to join them in vigil. She rarely saw Carson just sit with a patient that didn't require immediate attention, but he seemed happy to simply watch with them.

The three sat in comfortable silence, sipping the fragrant beverage and Elizabeth idly wondered if perhaps the wonderful smell of the coffee could encourage John towards wakefulness.

"John. We need you. It is time to wake," Teyla whispered the words so softly they were almost reverent, and Carson and Elizabeth nodded silently in agreement.

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 2_

The first time John woke in the woodcutter's hut, he was alone. Not even having the strength to sit up or look around, he simply opened his eyes, took in the flickering quality of the light against the walls and felt the heat of the room penetrating his pain locked body. A cup of water sat on the simple box nightstand just in front of him as he lay facing a smooth wood wall. With the urgency of pure survival, he eagerly reached a shaking hand out to take the cup and swallowed every drop in one blissful gulp. Plain water had never tasted so sweet. He thought about getting up to look around for more, but was unconscious again even before he could set the cup down.

The second time he woke, Nalia sat perched on the bed crooning to him and urging him to drink from the cup again. He shook himself to clear the fog and reached for the offered drink even before he really understood where he was or why. This time the cup held a rich broth, similar to the soup he had eaten at the table with Naden and his team his first night here. The broth was warm, but not hot and again he swallowed it all without pause; and although it was just a small amount, it left him feeling full and more satisfied than after that previous large meal.

He let the cup drop onto the mattress and frowned. Some thought was nagging at him; there was something of importance he needed to remember. If only he could think straight, and his chest didn't hurt so much, and he didn't feel so hot. He slipped under again into restless nightmares where Teyla and Ronon and Rodney were being fed on by Wraith, except they were lying in beds with blankets wrapped around them like mummies…

He awoke with a hoarse cry to find Nalia still there, or there again, this time reaching for his forehead with a cool cloth. He felt it touch his hot skin and suddenly he remembered. With an imperative thrust, he snatched Nalia's arm, holding it tight, pulling her towards him as he still had no strength to sit up. She had to understand, she had to help him or people he loved would die.

"Nalia. You have to listen…" His voice was so hoarse and raspy he feared she wouldn't be able to hear him, so he pulled her even closer and she leaned her face in, close to his. "You have to help me. Your father has a cure for the plague. He can stop this. He can save me and a lot of other people."

Nalia's face was perplexed then sad, "No. He would have stopped it if he could…"

"He's lying, or hiding it, or something! I saw it in his face, in his eyes. You must have guessed it, too. Something you said before…I thought you knew!" John closed his own eyes in frustration at her continued skeptical expression. He was sure. Sure that Naden did have a cure, and that for whatever reason he was withholding that cure from his people, feeding them the cock-and-bull story about a test and faithfulness. And he'd been reasonably sure that Nalia had at least started to suspect something. He couldn't figure out why she seemed so surprised and doubtful.

A sudden wild thought occurred to him. "Nalia, listen." His breath was growing short again, and he wondered if he should be frightened by the fact that he didn't even feel like coughing any more; the tickle in his chest had simply solidified into a lump that pushed out any room for air. "Listen. Naden said Davka was cured by his faith. But you have to think. You have to remember. Did Naden give Davka anything unusual before he got better? A pill, or a shot, or anything?"

Nalia frowned in concentration. John willed her to remember, to have seen something. Finally she hesitantly spoke, as if revealing an uncomfortable truth, and was worried about what he might think. "Well. I remember that when Davka came to Father's office with the fever, he was terrified as everyone always was. They talked for a long time. Davka was a good friend to my father, even before the plague. Father told him to seek the Ancestors and come back that night after dark, which was odd." She was silent for a while and John held his tongue, not wishing to frighten her from voicing the thought she was putting together.

"Before Father left that night, I found him rummaging in our icebox and he told me to sterilize the needles, which he only does if he's administering a drug. I did and he left." Nalia shrugged, trying to downplay the observation, "Davka got better, and my father claimed him as proof that the Ancestors could save someone who was faithful." Wild hope sprang in John's aching chest and, exhausted and weakened by fever, he blinked back tears at the emotion.

"Nalia. You have to find whatever it is that your father is hiding in the icebox and bring it here. Bring a syringe, and bring that medicine."

She started to protest, started to say she wasn't brave enough, or strong enough to doubt her father, when John suddenly lost patience and twisted her arm brusquely with what little strength he had left and barked, "Do it, woman! Go and get it now!"

Immediately regretting his loss of control, he let go and buried his face in his hands. Nalia slid off the bed and backed away from him, her expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, Nalia," he whispered through his fingers, "I'm sorry. I don't want to die this way." Lost in pain and regret, and terrified that he'd destroyed his one hope for help, John didn't see her slip out of the door a few minutes later.

* * *

Nalia was confused and she ran down the dark path, lit only by the late rising moon, letting the wind whip her hair around her face and feeling the chill take her breath away. She had created a perfect little fantasy as she tended to John in the warm hut: She would nurse him to health and then they would live together in the house they'd claimed. When he was well, they would confront her father, declare their love and Naden would give them his blessing. 

As she coaxed John to drink the broth and brought him cool cloths to tame the raging fever, she imagined him walking in the door after a day of exploring through the Stargate. He would sweep her up and kiss her and then tell her about his adventures over the dinner she would lovingly prepare for him.

The beautiful dream pushed away the reality of his illness, the reality of her miserable life, and soothed the loneliness she suffered day in and day out. So when John began to desperately ask her to believe in a cure other than her own tender care, she fought him; not only would believing in it indict her father in a horrible crime of omission, and in an indirect way, herself for choosing not to pursue her suspicions, but believing in it would mean accepting that John himself had the plague.

He continued to press. Still she resisted; she desperately wanted to forget that he was dying. For a moment she even feared that thinking it would cause it to be. And yet, paradoxically, a part of her was afraid of what would happen if he did get well. In a twisted way of thinking, she realized that at least, if he did die, he wouldn't leave her to return to his friends and the cinnamon-haired woman who called him John.

But when he'd grabbed her arm and spoken harshly to her, she had seen such fear and panic in his eyes that the fantasy had melted away and the real world had come crashing in upon her. She wasn't angry with him; she loved him. His quiet apology tore at her heart. She still didn't want to believe her father had withheld a cure all these months. And she didn't wish to face her part in the deception. But she would look now, whatever the consequences. For John. Because he had asked her to. And because she didn't want him to die that way.

* * *

The hours after Nalia left were John Sheppard's darkest. Certain that Nalia had abandoned him in the hut as her father had left him to die in the cell, his hope failed and fever and delirium consumed him. The lump in his chest squeezed out all breath and he began to panic, fighting for air, drowning in heat and sweat and despair. 

When Nalia found him, he was twisted in the blankets, writhing and gasping, wild fear on his sweat-slicked face. In a panic of her own, Nalia yanked at the covers to free him, and with a strength surprising for her slim frame, she managed to pull John upright and prop him against the bedframe, hastily arranging the pillows behind him.

The sensation of drowning eased as he sat up, and through a haze of labored breathing, he felt his sweat soaked T-shirt being tugged off. Even the warm air of the balmy hut felt cool against his hot skin and he began to shiver a little. A cup of water was placed at his lips and he managed to take a few sips. He felt a sharp sting, then another, in his thigh, but it was such a drop in the ocean of pain, he neither flinched nor even thought to look at what it was. Next came cool cloths draped over his chest and shoulders, and he shuddered harder.

John's whole world was fire and ice, shadow and hollow sensation. Finally, a pale dawn crept its way through the windows to find him in an exhausted sleep, his breath coming quietly and easily, the tousled, delicate form of the girl curled up, asleep, next to him on the mattress.


	6. Chapter 6

_Atlantis, 2:00 a.m. _

By midnight, the whole infirmary seemed to have moved to Sheppard's bedside. One by one, his friends and adopted family gathered to sit or stand nearby and offer silent encouragement. Elizabeth grinned when shortly after Carson, Teyla and she had finished their second cup of coffee, Rodney came wandering by, carrying his laptop and muttering about his Wi-Fi connection. With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the sleeping Colonel, he plopped himself on a bed nearby and set up shop, unfolding his computer and burying himself in complicated-looking Ancient schematics.

When McKay finally noticed everyone's grinning stares, he startled and groused out a petulant, "What? The wireless reception is much better here!" Then he promptly ignored the raised eyebrows and "_Yeah, sure_," expressions.

Not long after, Ronon appeared silently at the edge of the curtains that blocked off this section of the room, slouching casually and looking like he'd simply made a wrong turn on his way to the cafeteria. He stopped at the sight of the silent group and froze. Elizabeth, however, was quick to offer an encouraging nod, and jerked her head to an empty patch of floor opposite her. Looking a bit awkward, the large man considered, then moved to stand over his commander and friend in relaxed sentry; watching his back, figuratively and, in this case, quite literally.

John grew restless around 2 a.m., with the familiar mumbles escalating into an incoherent shout or two. He seemed anxious and kept scrubbing his sleeping face with his hands. The rest exchanged worried looks at the fretful movement, but Carson actually seemed pleased, and his satisfaction only grew as John's activity settled into simple repetitive twitches and jerks.

"He's waking up!" Carson whispered, checking the monitors one last time. Ronon looked skeptical, and Teyla glanced at Elizabeth with hopeful doubt.

McKay dropped the pretense of working at once to shuffle over and stare unabashedly, his computer tucked back under one arm. "Well? When? He still looks pretty asleep to me."

She was shooting Rodney a look of annoyed amusement when she heard a very soft whisper.

"McKay?"

The voice was so soft, that it took Elizabeth a moment to sort out where it had come from. Looking around for who had spoken, she was confused until rustling sheets drew her gaze to the bed and with a smile of triumph she leaped to her feet to stand over John who was squinting at her, blinking slowly in the dim light.

"Hey," she whispered happily, resisting the urge to take his hand; now that he was conscious she had to respect his preferred space. "I'm really glad to see you're awake."

He nodded, but closed his eyes and didn't speak for so long she thought he'd maybe dropped off again. Smiling she looked up to share her joy…and was shocked to find that everyone but Carson had left. She just caught the backwards glance of Teyla and Rodney as, grinning happily, they turned for one last look at their friend. Ronon seemed to have already made it to his bed and was lying down with his hands behind his head, his face comfortably passive. They were right: John needed space and time to wake up and orient himself. In a gesture of true friendship, they were giving him that space, needing only to know that he was on the right path.

Feeling the warmth down into her toes, she returned her attention to Sheppard. "John?" she asked softly, hoping to confirm on behalf of all of them that he wasn't in any need.

When he turned his head again, however, she caught her breath at the pain in his expression and the sad urgency of his voice. "Nalia? I'm sorry, I really am, but I have to go. I want to go home."

"John, you are home. You're on Atlantis. You made it."

He frowned, then suddenly seemed more oriented. "Right. Elizabeth. Are the others OK?" He spoke in little pants, as if pushing through pain, but it was so typical for him to ask about his team before bringing up his own discomfort that Elizabeth's smile returned.

"They're fine. They're all just great, in fact. Thanks to you. Do you need anything? Are you in pain?"

"You could tell Beckett to stop whoever's drilling a hole in my shoulder, but other than that, never felt better."

"I'll tell him." She looked up, caught Carson's eye from where he was standing behind John, fiddling with an IV and repeated with a twinkle in her eyes, "Dr. Beckett, get this man some painkillers for his shoulder!" It wasn't exactly what he'd said, but she took the liberty of being a bit pushy on his behalf. Beckett chuckled and was grinning from ear to ear as he disappeared into the pharmacy, only to return a moment later with a syringe and a bounce in his step.

John was dozing again, but woke easily when Carson nudged Elizabeth aside and questioned him, prying out a few more admissions of discomfort. Finally satisfied with his answers, Beckett injected the drug and John sighed deeply as the cool narcotic soothed the pain almost immediately. "Are you hungry, Colonel?"

John's eyes drooped, but he nodded his head, "Yeah, starving…really tired…" his words were slurred and he was soon breathing deeply.

"That's the best news I've heard all day, son," Carson answered softly. The feeling of relief was palpable, the tension in the infirmary evaporated, and along with it the sense of expectant waiting. John was asleep again, but he would waken. And he would need some space.

Elizabeth returned to her own bed, thinking about Nalia, whoever she was. She wondered if she ever would really know. She had been important to John, and he held some deep regret over their parting. But in the end, Nalia had let him return to Atlantis. To them. And she would always be grateful for that.

* * *

_G3C-187, Day 3_

John woke up slowly with intense, late morning sunlight glowing through his eyelids. He blinked and shifted his head out of the glare of the narrow sunbeam that had managed to find its way through the forest canopy and bounce in through the small panes of the window over the kitchen sink. The first thing he noticed was that his neck was stiff from sleeping propped up, his head lolled back against the bed's headboard. He shrugged his shoulders a bit, still too groggy from sleep to think much past stretching out the kinks.

The second thing he noticed once he finally looked down at the bed next to him was Nalia. Still deeply asleep, the girl had her hand on his wrist, as if she'd fallen asleep in the middle of checking his pulse, which wasn't such a wrong guess. With a flush of embarrassment, he took in his bare chest and boxer-briefs and felt his face grow warm with blushing. "Well, now this isn't awkward," he muttered, the sarcasm amusing only to himself. He hastily tugged at the twisted blankets trying to cover himself, at least from the waist down, but the motion of sitting further upright and leaning over broke loose a wet spasm and he was absorbed in lung scouring coughs for the next several minutes.

When he finally fell back against the pillows, worn out from the exertion, he could at least admit to himself that he felt a little better. Although tiring, the cough was clearing out the suffocating lump, and he breathed easier with every breath. He opened his eyes again and found Nalia standing close by, a cup of water in her hand and an anxious expression on her face. She looked as exhausted as John felt but he suddenly blushed again, finished pulling the blankets around himself, and reached for the cup.

He swallowed the cool liquid gratefully and as he handed the cup back, his hand caught hers and he pulled her closer until she finally met his eyes. He finally understood that she must have found the cure. And not only had she returned, she had cared for him in his delirium, pulling him back from the brink, soothing his fever and relieving his panic until the vaccine started to fight the disease and he could begin to heal on his own.

"Thank you, Nalia." His voice was just a whisper through a hoarse and gravelly throat, but his eyes were flooded with the gratitude he needed to convey. The girl caught her breath, and a slow blush crept up her neck to set her cheeks into a rosy flame. For a long moment, she was lost in his gaze, her own eyes revealing her deep feelings and awkward desires. John smiled at her discomfiture, chuckling ruefully at himself and the predicament he was in. Sighing, he let her hand go with a flop and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very old. She needed to be chasing after other teenage boys at football games, he thought, not falling in love with middle-age pilots while nursing them through the killer flu. It was not going to be pleasant when he left. The sooner the better, he decided.

Nalia looked shyly away and busied herself with pouring another cup to set by the bed. "You should drink as much as you can," she began to babble nervously, unable to smother her pleased grin. "You still have a fever, and were too sick last night to drink very much."

"You found Naden's cure?" He asked it only to force her to admit the situation. She needed to understand her father's duplicity. He absently rubbed his thigh where two tiny bruises gave evidence of the site where she must have injected the vaccine.

"Yes," she said stiffly, the grin suddenly gone. "I…There was nothing in our home, so I went to Father's offices and took the only medicine I didn't recognize. It looked like what he gave to Davka, so I hoped it was right. I also stole an antibiotic and gave that to you last night, to help fight the pneumonia." She walked away to rummage in the kitchen for a while before returning with a steaming bowl of porridge-like hot cereal.

"You did good, Nalia," said John taking the bowl from her and trying to catch her eye again, "It worked. I'm sure I'd be dead now if you hadn't gone for it. I'll always be more grateful than you can possibly know." He just hoped she could remember that when he stepped home through the Stargate.

She fiddled with the blankets for a moment, then sat at the edge of the bed to watch him tip up the bowl and slurp at the thick breakfast. "I saw my father last night too," she began hesitantly, looking intently at a hole in the mattress where the straw was poking through.

John dropped his hands to his lap, suddenly wary, "Where?" he asked brusquely.

"At our house, while I was looking for the medicine before going to his office." John remained tensely silent and she finally continued. "He was looking for you. Or actually, he was going out to look for you some more. He said they found Davka in the prison and were searching the road between town and the Stargate. He had come back for his gun…" Nalia raised her head, "He hates you, you know. I confronted him about a cure, and he said even if he did have one, he'd let you die in a ditch before he lifted a finger to help. Why does he hate you so much, John?"

It was his turn to blush at her use of his name with such quiet familiarity, but he considered her question, trying to decide how blunt to be. He didn't know much of the details, but he'd figured out Naden pretty quickly. Taking a deep preparatory breath he answered as honestly as he could without completely demonizing the girl's father in front of her, "Naden hates me because he hates himself. He has become something he doesn't want to be and I guess, maybe, I pushed him into recognizing that. He's done some terrible things, Nalia, and I can't excuse him for that. But I think I understand. You've all been through so much, between the plague and the damn Wraith…" he trailed off to sit quietly for a moment. John also thought that Nalia's crush had been pretty apparent, and that would only fuel Naden's spite.

The silence grew awkward and Nalia at last urged him to finish the porridge, which he did, gratefully accepting the excuse to avoid further conversation. He had figured Naden out, but Nalia was beyond his experience. He had no idea how to deal with her infatuation and while he didn't want to hurt her, he obviously couldn't offer her what she clearly wished; he was almost old enough to be her father too. Almost. (His pride demanded the emphasis…)

After finishing another glass of water, John took a deep breath, swung his legs off the side of the bed and contemplated getting up. He'd spotted his pants and shirt nearby on the hearth and planned to dress himself, grab the antidote and get the hell out of dodge. His ambitions were perhaps a bit ahead of his abilities, because the moment he pushed off to stand and reach for his clothes, the room began to swim, and his legs wobbled like rubber out from under him. If Nalia hadn't made a snatch for his waist, having just returned from washing the breakfast dishes, and helped lower him back to the edge of the bed, he would have made quite an unceremonious thud on the hard wooden floor.

"John? You're still too sick to get up! What are you doing?"

Nalia sounded worried rather than scolding, but John was annoyed by his body's mutinous weakness. Apparently, it had been easy to feel great lying in bed with someone bringing you everything you needed. But John wasn't really that kind of guy. He'd been a loner too long, and the fussing only embarrassed him, "I'm _trying_," he snapped through gritted teeth, "to get the hell out of here so I can go home."

It wasn't exactly the way he'd planned to broach the subject of his leaving, but he was fighting dizziness and the renewed pain of still sore joints that were protesting movement after so long at rest. When he finally scrubbed his face and looked up at Nalia to ask if she could just bring his clothes over to him, he was brought up short by her expression: She stood frozen in place, wearing a look of devastation and growing panic.

"You're leaving?" she finally asked in a choked gasp, and John realized he was in way over his head. It had never occurred to him that his wanting to leave would surprise her, although he had known she'd probably be disappointed, even sad, when he did. The shock and desperate disbelief in her face, though, took him aback, and he was suddenly, deeply, saddened by the circumstances of this girl's life that had left her so cruelly neglected that she could feel such grief over a mere stranger.

Trying to concentrate through the discomfort and shakiness of his own situation, he replied as quietly and comfortingly as he possibly could, "Yes, Nalia. I'm leaving, soon. I'm sorry, I really am. But I have to go. I want to go home." He played the "home" card again, hoping she would maybe care enough for him to be sympathetic to his point of view.

Instead, she hung her head and he squirmed even more as he caught bright tears welling in her deep brown eyes. "This could be your home," she whispered.

John sighed, "I seriously doubt your father would allow that," he muttered realistically, "even if I wanted to. But Nalia, you have to understand: I already have a home, and a job to do, and friends who need me. My people who were with me before are sick too, and while I know they are being cared for, they may need the vaccine to fully recover, too." His voice grew urgent as he also reminded himself of his responsibilities. He tried to stand again, managing to get himself upright by hanging on tightly to the foot post.

"John, I need you, too. Please don't leave me all alone. Take me with you."

God this was awful, he thought, starting to sweat and shake from the exertion of merely standing up. "I can't do that Nalia." He knew enough to know she needed to make her own way, and that taking her to Atlantis wouldn't really help her. "But," he sighed, giving up his efforts and sitting heavily down again, "I can wait a bit before I go. I think I have to." He closed his eyes and lay back with a flop. If he couldn't make it across the room, he surely wasn't going to make it the 3 miles back to the gate, even with help.

Nalia started to fuss with the blankets, automatically preparing to cover him. "Don't," he said simply, frustrated by the delay, worried about his friends, exhausted by the tension he was so ill-equipped to cope with. He scootched onto the pillows, pulled the blankets up by himself and covered his face with his arm, meaning only to rest for a few minutes, then try again. He was asleep within moments.

In a daze, Nalia walked around to the other side of the bed and sat facing the kitchen for a long, long time. He was leaving. He would leave her to die of loneliness like the townspeople left the plaguers. Unable to resist, even in her sorrow, she tenderly turned to watch him sleep. He lay on his back, face turned away, slight shadows of expression playing across his face even as he breathed deeply in slumber. Everything was perfect when he was sleeping, she thought. She could watch him, and care for him…love him. But piece by piece her plan, her fantastic dream, was being destroyed out from under her: her father would never accept the man she'd chosen, and John planned to go home without her.

The rational part of her tried to assert that, of course he would wish to return home, to his own people and his friends, just as he'd said. But the thought only brought to mind the beautiful woman John traveled with and a kind of jealous rage swept through her. Just then, he began to cough; lying on one's back wasn't an ideal position for the illness he'd been through. She expertly tugged him more comfortably onto his side, and the cough quieted without his waking.

She ran her hand down the sleek muscles of his bare arm and her broken soul finally snapped in two. He would stay, he would have to. John belonged to Nalia, and to her alone.

She quietly lifted her coat off the bedpost and slipped out the door.

She waited back in her house for a long time, dwelling on John, her thoughts growing more confused and twisted as she sat, the shadows moving across the windows into evening. When Naden finally opened the door and wearily shuffled in, his shoulders slumped in defeat, Nalia quietly stood up, and called out, "Father…"

Surprised, Naden rushed over to her, wrapping his arms about her in a fierce embrace, "Nalia, girl. I was so worried. I've been searching for you all day. You were gone this morning and I thought…"

What he thought she never learned because she pushed away to look him in the eye. "Father, I…I know where the plaguer is. He's alive."


	7. Chapter 7

_G3C-187, Day 3_

The room was dim in the forest hut when John startled awake with a panicky jerk. He sat up quickly, then had to stay still for a few moments to wait for the sudden dizziness to pass, but he took in the darkening windows and the empty room with alarm. He'd slept far too long. He needed to get home.

Nalia's absence surprised him, but he quickly decided that perhaps that was for the better. Maybe if he just left, it would be easier on her. Maybe that was why she'd gone away in the first place. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and admitted, with a twinge of guilt, that it would certainly be easier on _him. _

He took a moment to gulp down the last cup of tepid water, then, firmly ordering his body to cooperate, he pushed off and made it securely to the hearth to snatch up his pants and shirt. He winced as the movement set every nerve on fire, but he even managed to hop into the pants without sitting down first. With a sigh of relief, he patted the thigh pocket and felt the small hard lump of his GDO (garage door opener) device that would allow him to send his personal code to Atlantis and get him through the protective shield. John had learned the hard way that his vest and jacket were usually the first to be confiscated when the bad guys got hold of you. So he had taken to hiding the transmitter, and some other small useful items like the 90 mph tape, in one of the bulky pockets of his uniform pants. He quickly fastened his belt and stepped into his boots without bothering to tie them.

The shirt, however, was a lost cause, still damp and sticky from his several days of fevered sweating. Grimacing with distaste, his eyes fell on a beautifully carved wardrobe he hadn't noticed before and eagerly swung open the doors to find several sets of simple everyday clothing. He pulled a plain, tan work shirt off its hook and threw it over his head, ignoring the complaints of his shoulder joints. The fabric was homespun, rough and a little scratchy, and the shirt was much too broad for his compact frame. But it was warm, and he tucked the loose ends into his belt.

Feeling far too pleased by the simple fact of just being dressed, he tried to focus his thoughts and plan his next steps. He needed the vaccine, and he needed to get to the Stargate. Stepping quickly into the kitchen he searched the wooden countertops with his eyes, and then began to rummage through every cupboard and drawer he could find. The panic was beginning to return when he continued to find nothing but cookware and dishes, utensils and long expired groceries. "Ok, John," he muttered to himself, again noting the impulse to talk to himself out loud, "Think it through. The vaccine isn't here. Where would Nalia take it?"

With a weary sigh, he began to realize he was going to have to make a couple of stops on his way to the Stargate, and he sent a silent request to his abused and aching body to hang in there for just a while longer. He promised himself he'd sleep for a solid three days if he ever got home to make up for the nearly three days he'd spent in this god-awful place. He knew it would take much longer for him to sort out the uncomfortable feelings forced upon him during that time…but he would start with the nap.

Checking one last time around the hut, he pushed open the door and stepped outside for the first time in almost a day. It bothered him that so much of that day was spent delirious and/or unconscious. Shaking off the melancholy, he looked around to get his bearings: the single path that must lead back to the main path and Nalia's house marched off between the trees directly out from the door. He would go to Nalia's house first, and hope that neither she nor Naden were at home. He would hope that the vaccine was there because he had no idea how he'd find it amidst Naden's other medicines in the Doctor's office without Nalia's help.

His stride jerky and stiff at first, he set out across the muddy front yard and not a moment too soon; he had only just reached the first bend in the path when voices drifted towards him and he dove into a thicket as quietly as he could muster. Naden and Nalia soon walked into view. Astonished, John listened as they approached on their way towards the hut.

"You promised not to hurt him, father!"

"That's up to him, girl. You said he is still weak?"

"Y…yes. He's been sleeping for hours. He couldn't even stand before."

Naden seemed to be repeating himself as he muttered, "I still don't know what you are about, Nalia. The townspeople will kill us if they find out there's a medicinal cure for something they all believe is a divine trial!"

"I couldn't let him die, father. I love him."

John winced at the admission, even as he grew tense with alert fear. They were passing just in front of his hiding spot.

"You're a foolish girl. Did you think he loved you too? Did he tell you so?" Naden's voice was a sneer meant to torment the girl, but he suddenly stopped and John held his breath. "_Did_ he tell you he loved you? Did that son-of-a-bitch touch you?" John felt a flush of anger warm his face. He wanted to strangle the man for his cruelty to Nalia, to leap out and defend his own honor. But, he'd caught a glimpse through the leaves of an ugly, heavy looking weapon in Naden's hand and, gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay put. He was in no condition for hand-to-hand combat in any case.

"No, he never… I just want him to stay." Nalia's voice was soft and broken, and John forgave her in that instant. Even though she'd just made his next hour a lot harder, he could feel nothing but pity.

Naden turned on his heel and stomped towards the hut and John dashed back out onto the path the moment they were safely out of sight. Pushing his limbs into a halting jog, he willed himself faster, trying, and mostly failing, to ignore the screaming agony of the motion and the lingering weakness of a draining fever. He blindly flew down the path and faltered at a crossroads. Spinning and tripping, he spotted the roofline of Nalia's house and headed towards it, his breath coming in labored gasps.

He skidded to a halt at the back door and tried the handle, almost sobbing with gratitude when it turned easily and opened: he'd been terrified he'd have to try to break open the door. Pushing it closed behind him, he made straight for the icebox. Naden had hidden the vaccine there once; perhaps Nalia had done so now. Throwing open the insulated wooden box, he dropped to his knees to peer into the unlighted appliance that was nothing more than a glorified beer cooler.

Wilted vegetables, a hunk of meat or two and a couple slabs of cheese and butter were jumbled into the box as if they'd recently been rearranged. His heart hammering in his ears, he began to toss the food out. In the very back, tucked under a cloth-wrapped rind of cheese, was a small glass vial, stoppered at one end with rough-hewn cork. Reaching in an eager, shaking hand, John clutched the medicine and brought it to his chest with a sigh of relief.

Leaning against the icebox, he allowed himself just a moment to celebrate his luck, then, mastering himself once again, he staggered to the front door to peer out the window. Luck was still with him and he saw Naden dash onto the road with Nalia close behind. The girl looked like she was weeping as she ran, and seemed close to collapse. But Naden scanned the road carefully, then turned to hurry into town, leaving her to follow miserably behind.

Carefully, John opened the front door and skulked to the forest at the road's edge. It was nearly night, and all was dim shadows. He hoped that this time, with the cover of dark on his side, he could make it behind the shops and houses without being seen. And, just in case, he also kept inside the forest line, only darting out to cross the bridge. The tangled undergrowth slowed him down, and moving quietly was a struggle among the clinging branches and dry leaves, but finally, sweat beading on his brow and stumbling with fatigue, he reached the far side of town unseen. The path to the Stargate yawned before him, much wider than the small one to the woodcutter's hut.

Kneeling to rest, he wearily watched the wide avenue into town from this side. There was no sign of Naden or Nalia and John could only assume that they were somewhere organizing another search party. In a sudden, overwhelming rush, his fatigue caught up with him, and spots swam before his eyes. Breathing heavily, coughing some, he sat heavily onto the ground and leaned his head into his hands. He'd never felt so tired, nor so beaten up in his life. He knew it was the lingering effects of the disease and fever that made even his skin feel like it was smoldering, but the knowledge couldn't compete with the overwhelming aches.

He rocked on the ground, trying to master the pain, slowly slipping further into blackness. He felt something hard against his forehead. Stupidly trying to remember what he was holding, he forced his head up to look into his palm.

He still clutched the glass vial tightly, in his haste and relief, he had found himself unwilling to entrust the precious medicine to his pocket.

The responsibility he felt to his colleagues and friends encouraged him when his own strength of will could not. Pushing himself up to lean against his knees, he at last moved onto the path and turned his face towards home. He wandered down the center of the broad road, taking the risk of being seen in return for a clearer path. He was running on pure obligation, knowing that without rest and food and water, he would have only enough resources make it to the Stargate's rim. He finally slipped the vial into a pocket, fearful that he would stumble in the ever-deepening gloom.

The road grew pitch dark, but his mind was so filled with darkness of its own that he scarcely noticed. His whole being was focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He could have walked for an hour, or an eternity; it was all the same to John.

At last, a dim flickering light penetrated John's awareness. He blinked to be sure he wasn't dreaming and slowed the mechanical movement of his steps. Light from a fire or torches was glowing through the trees just ahead, and as he crept closer, he could hear muted voices talking quietly amongst themselves. Managing one last effort, he moved even more stealthily to get himself close enough to peer into the small forest clearing where the Stargate sat gleaming behind a simple campfire. Naden and Davka were the ones talking, their heads bent close together. One other man stood near the fire, looking like he was supposed to be on lookout and Nalia sat slumped against the DHD, her head buried in the skirts around her knees, her small shoulders shuddering with repressed emotion.

"Naden, I still don't understand!" Davka was whispering, glancing back at the sentry as if afraid he'd be overheard, "You said the man would be dead by now. That we should guard the gate in case someone of his kind came through. Not to keep a dead man from leaving!"

"I was wrong," Naden whispered back gruffly. "My girl, Nalia, has been hiding him for the past day. She nursed him and…extended the illness. He's desperate and trying to get home before he does die, but you know we can't allow him to leave."

Davka looked skeptical, and in that flicker of doubt, John saw his chance. "But it's been too long, Naden. Surely, even if he fled from the woodcutter's house, he'd never make it this far in the third day of the sickness."

"But I did make it." John stepped off the forest path and into the pool of light around the fire. Bringing every last ounce of resolve to bear, he took two steps nearer to stand with firm confidence before the startled men. Davka and the other man looked amazed, but John could see rage boiling under Naden's expression.

"John!!" screamed Nalia and she scrambled to stand, her tear streaked face glistening in the firelight. She lunged for him only to be grabbed and held by her father where she hung, struggling and sobbing limply.

John had little attention for her at the moment; his full efforts were focused on Davka. "I made it because the plague is only a disease, and one that can be cured with the right medicine. Naden has that medicine, I took that medicine, but he chooses to hide it from you!"

"He's lying," snarled Naden. John took another easy step towards Davka.

"Do I look like a plaguer in the third day?" he asked, spreading his arms casually. Privately, John was hoping the fire wasn't bright enough to reveal how terrible he actually felt. But he was betting on these people having seen enough of the kind of death the plague caused that his merely standing and talking would make a strong impact. From Davka's dropped jaw and expression of growing confusion, it was working.

"Your people don't have to suffer any more. No more isolation. No more waiting for death. Naden found the cure. I'm the proof."

"How did you come by this cure of Naden's? If he would withhold it from his own people, how did he come to find you worthy?" Davka seemed to be trying to maintain his list of grievances against him, but John could see the doubt seeping into his eyes and posture.

"Nalia possesses compassion where Naden does not. She gave me the cure last night, and I am recovering. She risked everything for me, and I owe her my life." He paused, hoping the girl would hear again his thanks and be able to move past her grief. Fixing Davka with a steely glare, he pressed his final point, "You yourself were cured by Naden's vaccine, Davka. He tested the drug on you. You, like me, are alive because of it. Think back, you know I'm telling the truth. You can end this, now."

John held Davka's eyes over the furious shouting of Naden yelling "Liar! No! It's not true!" Finally, Davka turned to his frantic friend with betrayal and sadness. The silent sentry also turned on Naden, and the two moved to flank him.

"Naden, my friend. How could you do this?" Davka's voice was overflowing with quiet, uncomprehending anger.

Naden slumped, defeated, and buried his face in Nalia's hair. The two looked oddly fragile as they clung together, and John slumped too, putting out a hand to brace himself against the DHD.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Naden whispered, to Nalia as much as to the rest of them. "I stumbled on the vaccine near the end of the plague. Nearly everyone who was going to die already had. You were among the last to become ill, Davka. I couldn't let you die too, my friend! And it worked! You lived."

"Why?" Davka pressed. "A few more have died since my salvation. Why not share the cure?"

"Because I was afraid. You believed the disease was a test. If there were suddenly a vaccine…then you would know that I had lied about the Ancestors. I just…wanted a home for us. For my daughter." He crushed Nalia into his chest.

Davka looked at his friend with a combination of pity and fury. "The council will decide your fate, Naden. As a citizen of our town, I place you in the custody of the council." Davka turned to John, his face cold and sad. "You may leave. Return to your people. We will deal with Naden in our own way."

John glanced warily at the sobbing couple. "What about the girl? She knew nothing until I forced her to look for the vaccine. Naden lied to her, too."

Davka's face softened, "She will be cared for." John nodded solemnly in gratitude and with a weariness unparalleled, he stumbled around the DHD and began to punch in the familiar symbols, his heart lifting as each one lit up and the lights on the Stargate began to whirl and sing.

As the chevrons began to lock, one by one, Nalia became suddenly frantic. Still held in her father's embrace, she began to struggle violently, screaming at John to stay, wailing that she loved him, begging him to take her with him. The gate completed its connection, the vortex splashed, and the event horizon shimmered a placid blue, beckoning him home. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life to look ahead and walk away from the frantic girl who'd done so much for him. And yet, he could think of nothing to say or do that would make his leaving any easier. He was just so very tired.

He paused to bend over and fumble the GDO out of its pocket. Once it was free, he punched in his code, preparing to step through. A flurry of activity behind stopped him and he turned briefly back. Naden was gasping, "Nalia! No!" and Davka, who had followed in honor escort just behind John as he approached the gate, was turning quickly too.

In a last desperate frenzy, Nalia had jerked out of her father's grasp and picked up Naden's weapon, long forgotten on the ground. She waved the gun at Davka and screeched, "Stop him! You're letting him go!" John saw the muzzle level and simply reacted. Grabbing the man's shoulder, he shoved Davka back and down, using his own weight to put them both into motion. An unnatural blue light flashed and John screamed as he fell on top of Davka. His shoulder was on fire, his skin was burning and the pain was exquisite agony.

Davka squirmed out from under John who continued to yell, overwhelmed by pain, until there was nothing left of his voice but a hoarse rasp. He lay limply on his stomach pressing his face into the cool grass. Somewhere beside him, he could hear Nalia softly chanting, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. John, I could never hurt you…"

John pushed himself up to shaky hands and knees, and turning his head slightly he saw Davka kneeling worriedly beside him, asking, "What can I do?" Just beyond him, Nalia was crumpled on the ground, leaning into her father who was cradling and rocking her.

"Just let me go home. Help me to the gate."

Davka heaved and John braced himself on the edge of the Stargate itself. Leaning heavily, he pulled the vial out of his pants pocket, reassuring himself that he still had what he had endured all this for, and clutched it tightly to his chest. He took a single, deliberate step into the event horizon and Nalia's final cry of mourning was cut off as the wormhole took him.

He completed the step in the bright, cool and quiet gateroom on Atlantis. Reaching out, he braced himself on the ornate ring at this side of the transition. Someone was nearby and he finally recognized that Elizabeth was calling to him worriedly, his name on her lips so different from the heart-wrenching cries of the girl he'd left on the other side.

"Hi," he said and, managing to lift his head enough to find Elizabeth watching him warily, he stretched out his shaking hand to give her the vial, being careful not to let go completely until he was sure she had a firm grip on it. He heard her puzzled exclamation and only had the energy to whisper, "Give it to Beckett." The doctor would figure it out. Everything would be OK.

John looked for a moment at the place he called home. Then, unable to fight any longer, he nodded with satisfaction and gave himself up to the pain. He was unconscious even before his knees hit the ground and never felt Elizabeth's hands on his fevered head. 


	8. Chapter 8

A_tlantis, Day 5_

"Hey!" John called out to Elizabeth from his perch on the edge of his infirmary bed that had been his headquarters for the past day looking more like a visitor than a patient. He was freshly washed and fluffed, dressed in crisp green hospital scrubs with only a bulge of bandage at his shoulder and a few strips of tape peeking out under the collar to hint at the injuries underneath.

Smiling, Elizabeth stepped close and he waggled his finger over the keyboard on the computer resting in his lap, waiting to make sure she was watching. With a dramatic flourish, he poked a single button and leaned back with a look that resembled something like triumph.

"My report," he announced, his voice equally triumphant. "Submitted within the required 48 hours of return from mission." He caught her 'amused smirk with raised eyebrow' and, pushing the computer off his lap to lounge more fully into the bed, added with just the right amount of self-deprecation, "Well, at least within 48 hours of regaining consciousness after return from mission."

She nodded happily, accepting the addendum. After John woke up that first time in the middle of the night, while she and his friends sat in vigil, they had all let him rest and recover in private for another full day and a half. Elizabeth had promised herself not to disturb John during that time, but she had badgered Carson enough to know that he had been in a good deal of pain and had done little but sleep and eat. Even now, there was a tray of mess hall food on the bedside table, and he was picking up a cold French fry to add to the gulp of water he'd just taken.

Yesterday, the pain subsiding to manageable levels, he had decided to wake up for good and moved to a more public bed, asking for his friends and enjoying the company. Elizabeth had joined them all last evening as they gathered around and badgered him about his lost time on Planet Plague, as Rodney quickly dubbed the formerly called G3C-187. Despite his easy banter and pleasure in their presence, John had somehow managed to avoid answering in very much detail, and they knew little more at the end of their visit than at the beginning: Nalia, the doctor's daughter, had given him a secret cure after the townspeople put him in jail and he broke out and made it to the gate.

Elizabeth and Teyla had exchanged perplexed and exasperated looks, but neither of them seemed willing to press. So, all in all, Elizabeth was secretly dying to read that report that he'd so smugly submitted right before her eyes.

For the moment, she settled on formalities and bad beside manner, "Thank you for your punctuality, Colonel," she teased. "When's Carson going to let you escape _his _prison?"

"Probably tonight, if I promise to go to my room and rest like a good boy," John smirked through another mouthful of fries. "I rearranged the duty calendar so I can get back to work tomorrow on light duty. Carson's gonna set me up with a burn bandage in two days. I'll be able to go with my team to B8C-250 next week as planned."

"If you feel up to it, fine. But there's no hurry, John. The Pegasus Galaxy can wait a few days for you to get back to discovering its secrets."

For some reason, her silly turn of phrase seemed to strike a sad chord, and John's expression sobered. "There is something I can't wait to do, Elizabeth. We have to go back and vaccinate the people on G3C-187. Carson says that those who don't develop the disease wind up as infectious carriers. That's how my team and I caught the damn plague in the first place. If we vaccinate everyone, they won't be able to pass it on to others and other worlds. I'd appreciate it if you could read my report and approve the medical mission it recommends as soon as possible."

His somber request was almost plaintive and Elizabeth responded with equal gravity, "I will, I promise. I'm sure Carson will agree to go. But really, you don't have to go back there yourself if… well, if it would bother you." She hated to insinuate that he couldn't handle his experience, but even from just what little she did know, she would hesitate to ask anyone to return under those circumstances. She was going to be damn sure they arranged extra security for whoever did go.

"It'll do more than just bother me, I'm sure," he said in a low voice, looking straight ahead, not quite hiding the admission, but not quite able to share it with her directly. Then suddenly, he met her eyes and his own were determined, "But I have to go. You'll understand why after you read the report. My team has to be the one that takes the vaccine back."

"I'll read it," she repeated, but privately, she withheld her approval on his participation until after she had.

"Thanks. And Elizabeth…" he was staring ahead again, "Thank you for waiting with me when I was unconscious." She held her breath, surprised at the rare display of emotion. He looked down at his hands and went on quietly, "I never really appreciated what it means to me to have people around who care when you're sick, and… just thanks." He finished lamely, grinning up at her, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

"You're welcome," she grinned back. "Just send me a memo the next time you plan to sleep for three days so I won't worry so much while I wait." He chuckled, and she added more softly, "We care when you're awake, too, John."

"I know…"

A short time later, Elizabeth sat at her desk with a mouse cursor poised over John's filed report. In order to avoid being interrupted, she had sent out all her "Do Not Disturb" signals and settled into the chair feeling something between excitement and anxiety. In a way, she'd waited seven days to read this story. Seven days of wondering and worrying. And after he did return, four days of trying to fit tantalizing bits of information into the puzzle that was John Sheppard. With a deep breath, she double-clicked and began to read.

It was a very thorough document and included notes from Carson on the plague and comments about how to improve and mass-produce the vaccine. He had also appended the shorter reports from Teyla, Rodney and Ronon, which was unusual. He seemed to feel the need to include as much information as possible.

Elizabeth only skimmed these and greedily began to read John's formal mission report starting from the moment he'd sent the rest home. She was immediately captivated and the more she read, the more she got caught up in John's struggles. She was right in guessing that he would mention little of his discomforts and fears, but this time, she could fill in the simple statements of fact with her memories of his anguished dreaming mutters.

When she finished, she stared at the screen for a long, long time.

She did understand, now, why John's team needed to be the ones who returned with the vaccine: the villagers had seen them all sick with the plague. They would be the proof that there was a cure, as John had been the proof for Davka to believe.

She thought long and hard about why John was so determined to return. His quiet gratitude for the comfort of his friends seemed even more poignant in light of the neglect he'd suffered. Those people had put him through so much, it would be perfectly understandable for him to send his team on and stay the hell away. But John was, well, John. He had a strength that few could understand, much less emulate. Elizabeth could see that there was unfinished business between John and the people of G3C-187. He wanted to save them, even though they'd left him for dead. He needed to show them how people were supposed to care.

And, he needed to go back to make sure that Nalia was OK.

Elizabeth understood far more about the girl than John would ever suspect she'd be able to guess. He had carefully crafted his words to express only his sincere gratitude to the young woman who had risked her father's ire, and the condemnation of the whole town, to find the cure that had not only saved him, but also most likely saved his teammates lives as well. But Elizabeth could hear him calling to the girl over and over in his fevered dreams, hear him begging her forgiveness for leaving.

Elizabeth had been subjected once or twice to the John Sheppard charm that could leave even a seasoned diplomat melting in her shoes and looking for a quick way out of the room to breathe deeply for composure. It didn't take much to imagine how that charm, even unintended, might affect a lonely young woman. Though she might never know exactly what happened or how between her military commander and the girl, Elizabeth now understood John's sorrow. She had to let him go back.


	9. Epilogue

_G3C-187 Epilogue_

John was the first to step out of the Stargate into the warm mid-morning sunshine of the small forest clearing on Plague Planet. He wore his standard offworld uniform, but had opted out of the heavy vest that rubbed on a still tender shoulder. His 9 mil, though, was strapped firmly to his hip, and his hand drifted to the reassuring butt of the weapon perhaps a bit more often than when he also carried the larger, more powerful P-90.

Teyla, Ronon and Rodney McKay soon joined him and the four quickly moved aside to make room for the rest of the expedition, even as they automatically scanned the area and secured the perimeter. Carson Beckett came huffing and puffing next, carrying a rather heavy looking duffel bag, and sporting a large backpack, too. The rest of his medical team was equally burdened, and John chuckled, making a mental note to spend some time with the doctor on how to pack more efficiently.

Last came the four-marine security team that Elizabeth had insisted accompany them, to John's mild annoyance. The people on G3C-187 might be psychotic, but they were simple and primitive. His problem before had been the plague and his damn naïveté in thinking he could talk them out of the cure. If he'd had any idea what they actually did to people who were sick, he would have never turned over his weapons so easily. He'd had a good long time in the infirmary to sink that lesson in deep, and he rolled his shoulder a bit in remembered discomfort.

When everyone was through and the gate shut down with a final "Good Luck," from Elizabeth via his radio, John ordered two of the marines to stay with the gate and set off down the one wide path. Although he thought he had prepared, he felt himself growing more and more nervous the closer they got to town. Something like panic was growing in his chest, and he was sure his blood pressure was skyrocketing. All at once he felt overwhelmed by memories and apprehension over the confrontation to come and he stopped dead in his tracks, unable, for a moment to push himself any nearer.

"John?" Teyla's soft voice was soothing, and brought him out of the past and back into the present. He quickly moved on again, but he could feel Teyla continuing to watch him closely. They were all watching him closely: Ronon paced him a step behind and a half step to his left, keeping a much more formal and close position than usual. Even Rodney seemed to find little to complain about, and was quietly taking uninteresting readings on his scanner as he walked. With sudden relief, he realized that he wasn't alone this time. He wouldn't be left alone. His team was here with him, and they were here for him.

He managed a shaky nod to Teyla who nodded back, acknowledging the unspoken gratitude with quiet understanding. John had talked to Teyla about Nalia: It had taken a couple of beers and a lucky moment of comfortable privacy to bring himself to ask her opinion on what to do when he saw Nalia again. The whole thing felt so uncomfortable and awkward and sad. But he did care for the girl, in his way, so he'd pushed through the embarrassment and together they had decided that it would be best to let Nalia take the lead. Which was all very fine and good, except it gave John little to do to prepare.

Breathing deeply to force down anxiety, John walked the final steps off the path and into the main street of the town. Silently, he sensed his people rearranging themselves around him: Teyla, Ronon, and Rodney spread out beside him to walk in a determined line of solidarity. Beckett and his people clumped together just behind, uneasy from the tension, and the two remaining marines followed last, side-by-side, looking warily alert. They made an impressive parade down the center of the simple wooden town. And people noticed.

Having decided they would first go to the Mill at the far end of the road, which served as not only the commerce center of the town, but as de facto town hall, John set his eyes ahead and walked on. Soon more people were on the street, watching warily, whispering among themselves. Before long, a crowd had gathered, and, as people will do when in a group, some were emboldened and called out, "What do you want?" or "Why have you come back here?" If they had looked closely, the Atlantians might have noticed the people clustering into two discreet groups, but John only saw his memory of them jeering at him when he'd fallen to his knees in pain and weariness. He clutched the butt of his 9mil tightly to stop the shaking of his hands.

"Colonel? Colonel Sheppard?" John stopped walking to search out the voice, and Davka pushed his way through a clump of people, looking much harassed, to rush straight up. The villager looked warily at Ronon, who was edging closer to flank Sheppard again, then leaned his head close to John's and urgently whispered, "Why are you here? Things have not been…good since you left and I brought Naden before the council. If you seek revenge, then believe me: the damage is done!"

John raised a surprised eyebrow and decided to address the whole crowd in answer. Looking over Davka's shoulder, he said in a clear, loud voice, "We came to help. These people are very skilled healers, Doctors. We've brought enough serum to vaccinate the whole town and leave some for the babies who happen along in the next year or so. The plague can stop, now. Forever."

John wasn't exactly sure what to expect, so he watched the villagers closely. Several seemed to be nodding and agreeing emphatically, looking hopeful and triumphant. Many others had closed body language, crossed arms and defensive stances and were shaking their heads in disbelief. Davka hastily summed up the sentiment.

"The town is divided. Some believed me about the cure and were ready to punish Naden and demand he turn over the medicine. Many others choose to continue to believe Naden's lies and claim we are heretics against the Ancestors." Davka sounded desperate and anxious. Clearly the man was at his wits end to resolve the town's conflict.

For his part, John understood better than anyone. Goaded by Naden when the plague struck, some, perhaps even most, of these people had committed horrible acts of neglect against those who became ill in the name of the test they believed they were enduring. To accept that there was a medicinal cure was to accept that they had been wrong, and were guilty of terrible crimes. John was sure many would deny the truth with even violent vehemence.

"Where is Naden? What is he saying?"

Davka looked uncomfortable, "Naden is in the prison. He's in a deep depression and neither speaks nor sleeps…" John nodded then took a friendly step closer to the nearest group of villagers that seemed somewhat agreeable.

"I and my friends are proof that the plague can be cured. Many of you saw that we were ill. Some of you even had the pleasure of escorting me when I was sick to your facilities." John placed a lightly sarcastic emphasis on the last word, and was pleased to see the face in the crowd he'd singled out squirm uncomfortably. John still had on his back remnants of the bruise from that man's shoe.

"Davka has been telling you the truth. Your Doctor, Naden, found a cure that can not only stop the disease from progressing in someone who falls ill, it can stop those who do not get sick from passing the plague on to others." There was a swell of muttering at these words. John took the opportunity to catch Beckett's eye and held the look as he finished, "We'll set up our clinic here. Anyone who wishes to be vaccinated is welcome. I hope that, by the time we need to leave, everyone in town will consent to an injection. That is the only way the plague will truly end."

With that, John turned his back on the town and busied himself completely in the task of setting up Carson's tables and gear and the simple rain fly they had brought. Carson was taken by surprise, but was soon barking orders and a clinic began going up with remarkable speed.

The people continued to mill around, and some heated discussions were shouted back and forth, but John had decided they needed to work it out for themselves. He simply put himself and his team in the forefront of the construction as visible, obvious symbols of the message he was trying to sell.

The clinic was looking quite good when John suddenly realized two people were standing quite close. Surprised, but greeting them with friendly courtesy, he waved Beckett over with a subtle signal. The pale and solemn couple stood bravely before John quietly holding hands. The woman looked sternly into his eyes and asked, "You said there would be a vaccine for babies?" John only nodded, wondering at the question. "Our baby died from the plague only days after he was born. Even though we never got sick, our baby died." John sucked in his breath, unprepared for the tragic story, at a loss at what to say.

Carson Beckett came to his rescue, and John had never been more grateful for the man's incredible compassion and bedside manner. "I grieve for your loss," he comforted soothingly, "A wee baby would have no chance against such a potent illness, even if he inherited some form of immunity from his parents." Carson took the woman's hand and urged with the plea of a healer, "Nothing can bring your baby back, but once you are vaccinated, you can no longer pass on the disease to another child or anyone else. Doesn't that seem like a good thing?"

The woman held his eyes for a long time, then looking once at her husband, she turned her head proudly to the crowd, sat down on the nearest chair and held out her arm. "Yes. That is a good thing." Smiling, Carson hastily finished his preparations and unwrapped a sterile syringe. The young husband sat down next, equally proud, and he too was vaccinated. Then, to John's wonder and relief, a line started to form as more and more villagers made their choice and asked for the vaccine. Carson got his nurses working too, and the line moved quickly. Carson took blood samples as well, to confirm his theories and evaluate the overall health of the community.

It was a start.

Much later that day, John stood exhaustedly just beyond the chaos of the clinic, taking a break trying to relax enough to ease the killer tension headache that had started to pound behind his eyes. Carson had started to treat other problems the villagers brought to him, and the line for vaccinations was steady, so they all had been working flat-out for hours. There were a few village holdouts that would stand glaring at the bustling activity in the middle of the street, but one look from one of John's burly marines on guard duty would quickly send them scurrying away.

Teyla walked over to join him, touched his arm briefly and offered him a drink from the pitchers of water some of the village women had brought them. John accepted gratefully, digging in his pocket for another packet of Tylenol he'd swiped from Carson's stash a few minutes ago.

"It seems to be going well," Teyla commented, smiling at a passerby.

"Yeah. I think there are still a couple on the council who aren't sold, but they'll come around. Knowing these people, they'll be forced to come around." John was still bitter about the town, and Teyla had to agree that they had proven themselves capable of dark deeds.

John suddenly stiffened, freezing with a tension so complete, that Teyla instinctively reached for her weapon and scanned the horizon looking for the danger. Seeing nothing threatening, she at last had to follow John's gaze to notice the two women on the street several buildings down. One was an older matronly-type and the other a young woman or girl of 17 or 18: Nalia.

Teyla quickly looked back at John's face, concerned to see his usual easy confidence replaced by hesitant, troubled sorrow. The girl froze too, her companion also quickly assessing the situation. The matronly woman quickly bent to hold Nalia comfortingly by the shoulders and began muttering quietly and urgently to her. After a long, heartbreaking moment, Nalia began walking again, her eyes locked with John's a second longer. And then, she turned away and shuffled towards the simple house a few doors down, her eyes dead and hollow, the arms of the kind woman still on her shoulders.

John watched them until they disappeared through the door and a warm glow from a lantern or candle lit the single street-facing window against the approaching evening shadows. Teyla said nothing, waiting for him to work through the emotion. At last, he relaxed and sadly nodded to himself. Nalia was being cared for as Davka had promised. That was all he could really ask; the thing she thought she wanted, he couldn't give her. He would always remember her as brave and compassionate, even as he would always remember her as fragile and broken.

"Teyla," he said wearily, "Beckett's got things under control here. I think I'm ready to go home." He looked at the glowing window again. "I need to go home."

Teyla nodded, accepting the statement as a command and walked off briskly to arrange for an escort and assure Beckett that Ronon and two Marines would be staying and that another team would be through quickly to replace them. When all was ready, she found John at the edge of town, waiting for them by the forest path to the Stargate. He glanced over the group that included herself and Rodney, two townsmen who were carrying cheery torches and the other two Marines who would stay with the gate until another SG and security team came through to relieve them.

"Move out, people!" John called, his voice strong and ringing with authority. But as Teyla moved past him to take her position on point, she heard him mutter, "Let's get the hell out of here…"


End file.
